


Mend and Make Do

by Ishtar12



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Body Horror, Bucky Barnes Feels, Clint Barton Feels, FIC IS COMPLETE, Hallucinations, Handwave Science, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Medical Torture, Mental Health Issues, Miscommunication, POV Bucky Barnes, POV Clint Barton, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Self-Harm, Suicide mention, Supportive Avengers, Unreliable Narrator, excessive use of Harry Potter references, handwave magical practices, handwave medical procedures, magical tampering
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-09
Updated: 2017-09-29
Packaged: 2018-11-12 02:23:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 19
Words: 106,667
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11152212
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ishtar12/pseuds/Ishtar12
Summary: While the rest of the world picked itself up and rebuilt after the alien invasion, Clint hid inside the confines of the Tower, haunted by his part in Loki's war on Earth, more literally than his teammates know. After Bucky disappears on a routine mission, Clint has no choice but to face what is hunting him.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I've been playing with this on and off for... nearly two years, oh my goodness. Countless thanks to my brickspace spousal creature for endless hours discussing plot, character development and Alpha/beta reading various versions.  
> A million thank you's to Finely-Honed for being an amazing person and letting me randomly throw out 'how do i word' questions while I beta read DITHOM - which you need to go read, like, right now.
> 
> This fic is COMPLETE :)

Phil’s humming echoed throughout the apartment. Clint shivered, the sound raising goosebumps along his skin as it followed his retreat down the hall. One hand went automatically to his hearing aid, but he let it drop with a grimace. He already knew, first hand, that taking out the aids wouldn’t stop the noise. It wasn’t really in his ears. 

At least the thing wearing Phil’s face had the decency to stay in the kitchen this time. It was a huge improvement over last time, when he had trailed after Clint for an entire day. 

“It,” Clint mumbled, as he counted his steps. “It didn’t follow me.” Each stride remained unhurried and even. Deliberate. It was the best middle finger he had left. “It’s an it. Not a him.” He swallowed and had to roll his shoulders to stop their upward progress. “It ain’t him, Barton, it’s fuckin’ not, and you know it.”

Exactly fifteen steps, and Clint’s hand wrapped around the handle for the spare bedroom. He opened it without breaking his stride, switching to counting inhales instead of footfalls.

Fury refused to relinquish Clint’s favorite bow - he’d designed it himself - but that by no means left him unarmed. The room, originally intended as a spare, doubled as both an armoury and storage unit, instead. Novelty duct tape decorated with cheerful cartoon bombs separated the room, a neat line down the floor, walls and, for some reason, the ceiling.

Bucky’s half bore precise rows of guns along the walls, interspaced with blades of all sizes and shapes. His specially reinforced closet held the more explode-y or chemical type toys, like Clint’s nerve gas arrow heads. Even Bucky’s tac gear had its own specific space. It forever amused Clint how obsessive Bucky was with his weapons, considering he was as sloppy as Clint in everything else.

Clint’s walls, in stark contrast to Bucky’s military neatness, were a riot of various bow types, quivers, bundles of arrows, guns, and whatever else he found. The bazooka had gone missing after two days, but that might have been Steve. His gear, cleaning supplies and fletching stuff lay scattered all over the floor.

The humming morphed into a mournful song, swelling to invade the room. Clint hissed a breath through his teeth, and snagged the nearest handful of arrows. A dismantled recurved bow hung closest, and he yanked it down. Arrow shafts between his teeth, Clint reassembled the bow with deft hands.

“Mist and shadow, cloud and shade, all shall fade…”  
  
“Awesome,” Clint muttered as he set the arrow to the string, two more stuffed in his back pocket. “That’s not creepy at all for a dead guy to be singing.”  
  
He drew the arrow back with three fingers, and held it. Clint closed his eyes between one full breath and another. Years of practice left him with the ability to stand at full draw long past the point of trembling limbs, and still hit his mark. Equally important, he’d conditioned himself to slip into a meditative state, a peaceful, blank place narrowed down to the feel of the string against his rough fingertips.

Lately, the ability lent itself more towards shutting out unwanted voices than hitting targets.

Some time after he lost count of his inhalations, Clint fluttered his eyes open. Phil’s voice had faded away into the white space of his head, and his arms ached. He lowered the bow, rolling the tension from his shoulders. With one last deep breath, Clint shook his head, shedding the cotton he’d wrapped himself in.

“Aw, man.” He groaned, stretching his arms out and behind him. Something popped and he groaned again, itching at the spot with the tip of the arrow. He wiggled as the sensation shifted. It slid from his mid-back, to the curve of his shoulder and Clint froze.

He spun, jerking back when the itch turned into a cool tingle over the left half of his chest. Rubbing at the area didn’t help. Clint looked down, face pensive, but there wasn’t anything there. He blinked and poked at his chest.

A hand materialized in fits and starts, like static. It lay pressed flat against Clint’s chest, finger curling over his collar bone. Clint’s finger passed straight through the back of the hand, near the wrist. Or where a wrist should be.

For the tiniest second, Clint entertained the stupid, wild thought that Thing from the Addams family was real. Then the thumb slid over, to dip into the hollow of his throat.

Clint gave a strangled sound, jerking his finger free and stumbling back, batting at his chest with both hands. The ghostly hand never twitched. Instead, the flesh dripped down, like condensation on a glass, until the hand was attached to more than thin air. 

Tense but compelled, Clint found himself dragging his eyes past the crisp white cuff covering the wrist bone, over the immaculate black suit sleeve. Blood seeped through the chest of the suit, nearly invisible against the fabric. It bloomed brightly against the white shirt underneath, in a terrible parody of a flower’s delicate petals.  

The hand flexed, and Clint’s gaze jerked the man’s face. Pale blue consumed eyes that should have been a solid chocolate in a face more familiar than his own. Phil gave a smug, closed mouthed smile.

“Not him,” Clint ground out, desperate but weak. 

The creature rose up onto its toes, swaying into Clint’s space. “Come now, little hawk,” it murmured, mouth too close to Clint’s skin. “I thought you missed this body? You certainly think about it enough. Naughty boy.” Though the words were delivered in the same dry fashion that Phil favored, the voice didn’t match. It purred out of the thing’s mouth, deep and smooth, the accent rich and arrogant. Loki’s voice.

Clint lashed out as soon as the thing spoke. The bow sliced through Phil’s head, and the image shredded. Loki’s high, psychotic giggle hung heavy in the air as Clint backed himself against the wall.

“What,” he said, fitting arrow back to string, eyes scouring the room, “the hell is this?”

Not-Phil reappeared, lounging against the door frame. This time, he was taller, thinner, his face more angular. He fluttered his fingers towards Clint, grinning.

“Oh, fuck this,” Clint spat. He swung the bow up, loosing the arrow without pausing to aim. It buried itself deep in Phil’s right eye. Thin crimson lines oozed down his too-sharp cheekbone. Phil frowned, trailing too long fingers up the arrow shaft.

“That’s hardly polite behavior, Barton,” Loki’s voice said in his ear.

Clint snatched a second arrow from his back pocket. It clattered to the floor as a new voice broke the tableau.

“Agent Barton, if I may,” Jarvis said.

The strange mashup of Phil and Loki pressed his head forward, dragging his eye socket all the way down the shaft of Clint’s arrow. He reached the fletching and tilted his head, mouth stretched in a Cheshire grin.

“Yeah,” Clint muttered, dragging the word out. “That’s gonna show up in my nightmares.”

“Agent Barton?”

“What’s up, J?” Another step and the arrow vanished inside Phil’s skull. Blood and goop decorated the right side of his face, the socket more of a pulsing hole than an eye.

“Master Barnes may be having difficulty. He has not moved in nearly an hour, though his heart rate indicates he is not asleep.”

Phil disappeared, leaving the gore-free arrow jutting from the doorframe. Clint blew out a breath and shook himself. He straightened, scrubbing at his face with one hand. Breaking down the bow took less than a minute, and he shoved it back onto a random, free hook. “Tell me where, Jarvis, and I’m on it.” He wrested the arrow free from the wood on his way out the door. “And I told you to cut it with the ‘agent’ crap.”

“Indeed,” Jarvis responded, dry and pert. “And Master Barnes is in the Captain’s rooms. They seem to have had another disagreement.”

Clint grunted as he strode towards the elevator. “‘Course they did. Cap doesn’t know when to shut up and Buck doesn’t want to tell him to fuck off.” He still felt wobbly and off kilter, but if Buck was in a bad way then he didn’t really have time to get his shit together. Instead, he twisted the arrow so the tip dug into his wrist as he walked. The pinch gave him something else to focus on.

“Quite,” came the soft reply. “Might I enquire as to your own state, Agent?”

The elevator opened before he could reach for the button. The doors slid shut behind him just as smoothly. “What?”

“You have been exhibiting classic symptoms of distress on and off for the last few hours — .”

Clint sucked in the meat of one cheek and chewed. “Don’t. Just don’t, bro.”

There was a breath’s hesitation before the voice came again. “Your teammates and friends would wish only to help, should you approach them.”

Not for the first time, Clint found himself wondering how human the artificial intelligence actually was. He squeezed his fingers around the arrow in his fist until his knuckles cracked. The tip didn’t break the skin but he’d have an imprint for a while.

“Maybe,” he said, forcing himself to relax. “Maybe not. Don’t much matter, ‘cause I’m good.” He tugged his sleeve, making sure his skin wasn’t visible.

“If you say so,” Jarvis sighed through the speakers.

“Just did, J. You gonna open the doors?”

On cue, the elevator doors whispered open, letting Clint out onto the landing of Steve’s floor in Stark Tower. He flicked a hand up in acknowledgement, and went hunting for Bucky.

Clint found him straight away, since Steve’s landing led straight to his expansive living room. Bucky’s long, muscular frame took up the entirety of Steve’s oversized couch. He lay on his back, legs crossed at the ankle. One hand curled beneath his head to prop it up, and the other, gleaming silver in the sun, stretched behind him to brush the arm of the couch.

Bucky’s face was lax and peaceful, without so much as a hint of a scowl and Clint relaxed further. He propped himself up against the loveseat, letting the arrow twirl aimlessly through his fingers as he drank in the lean lines of Bucky’s body. The man was unfairly beautiful, and Clint didn’t often get to admire him.

“Like what you see?” Bucky drawled, his old time Brooklyn accent easing though the vowels. “Lookin’ to buy, or just get your grubby mitts all over the merchandise?”

Clint snorted. “Windowshop only, man. Me and fancy, expensive shit really don’t mix.”

Bucky stretched with a groan, hauling himself upright onto the corner cushion. “At least I’m a high end call girl,” he said through a laugh.  “Pretty sure you can’t break me, though. I’m not glass.”

Clint shrugged and ignored the second half of his statement. “High end? Nah. High maintenance, maybe, with all that hair.”

Metal glinted as Buck flipped him the bird.  Clint let himself fall into Bucky’s gravity, the last of his unease fading in light of the smirk twisting Bucky’s plush mouth. He scratched under his chin with the arrow as he wandered closer, letting himself flop onto the couch beside Buck.

Bucky snatched the arrow away and clapped him open handed upside the head. “You trying to kill your damn self?”

“....No? Hey, what’re you doing up here anyway? Thought you were avoiding Cap.”

Bucky scowled, and Clint tugged the arrow back. He resumed fiddling with it, letting Bucky have his moment to think.

“ ‘M not avoidin’ him.” Bucky groused, crossing his arms. “I’m not,” he insisted, catching Clint’s near smile. “I’m tired of it, okay. I spent a fuckton-a years without any choices at all, and I know-.” Buck cut himself off with an audible click of his teeth.  

Clint poked him with the arrow, wiggling his eyebrows when Bucky glared. All at once, Bucky sighed, tension draining out of him.

“I get that he’s worried. I get _why_ he’s worried. But I ain’t a goddamn child in need of lookin’ after, y’know? I got choices, and I’m the one making the calls. He needs to cut the apron strings before I strangle him with ‘em.”

With a hum, Clint dropped himself across Bucky’s lap. He squirmed until he lay on his back and could drag the arrow through the long hair framing Bucky’s frustrated face. “What happened this time?”

Buck shot him a sharp, knowing glance. Clint smiled sunnily in return. “You gotta quit keepin’ tabs on me, Barton.”

“Dunno what you mean, Barnes.”

Bucky grunted and rolled his eyes. “Got a call.” 

Clint immediately tensed. He hated it when Buck went out, but missions were their own special hell. Clint wouldn’t be there to have his six, and no one had eyes like he did.

As though reading his mind, Bucky dropped a hand and threaded it through Clint’s short, messy hair. “Nat’s coming with,” he murmured. “I’ll be fine.”

Clint nodded, forcing his body to calm down, though his heart beat too fast. He couldn’t help but fist his free hand in the hem of Bucky’s shirt. Already, the sunlight seemed to dim around the edges.

“It’s another kiddie run, anyway,” Bucky continued. “Fury thinks he’s cute or somethin’. Gonna be me and Widow, some quick recon and ground work for a couple abandoned cells that might have Hydra connections. Knowing Fury, it’s another test, but we shouldn’t be gone long. Few days at most.” Buck dropped his head back against the couch. “Wish Stevie’d get over whatever crawled up his ass about it, though.” 

Here, Clint knew he could do something. He took a breath, willing the roil in his gut to subside. “He’s still pissed Fury didn’t clue him in on the whole Winter Soldier thing. Can’t blame the guy, Fury’s lies have lies. But before that, they actually got along pretty decent.”

Clint turned his head and smacked an obnoxious, loud kiss over Buck’s stomach. “Dude’s a big, angry, blue brick wall that wants to protect you.” He forestalled the argument he could feel Bucky gearing up for. “You know it’s ‘cause he loves you, man.”

Bucky snorted, shoving his flesh hand through his hair. “It’s been a long fuckin’ year.”

Cool fingers wrapped around Clint’s wrist and gave a gentle tug. Clint glanced up into Bucky’s mischievous face and blinked, confused. Bucky slipped his arm under Clint’s waist and manhandled him upright. Clint ended up straddling Bucky’s lap, the other man’s large hands cradling his hips, fingertips sneaking under his shirt. The strength in Bucky’s grip left him breathless, grounded. He grinned down at Bucky, tucking the arrow over his own ear so he could wrap his own hands around Bucky’s wrists.

“There it is,” Bucky murmured, eyes flickering over Clint’s face.  
  
“What?”  
  
“Nothin’.” Bucky answered, still in that warm tone. “Nice to know you’ll brave Steve’s floor to come find me, though.” He slid his hands free, only to bring them firmly up Clint’s spine.

Clint melted against Bucky’s chest, groaning into his neck as Bucky chuckled. “Anything for you, babe,” Clint mumbled. “Even Cap’s Epic Disappointed Face.” Hard fingers jabbed into his ribs and he yelped.

“That’s not his disappointed face,” Bucky huffed. “Trust me. It’s his sad-puppy ‘let me help’ face. Dunno which is worse, though.”

 It was Clint’s turn to sigh. “I’m alright, Buck. I’m good.”

Bucky’s hands stilled on his back. “So if I asked why you keep refusing that psych eval Fury wants…?”

Clint grunted. “I’d tell you it's a waste of time and to cut the shit, you hypocrite. Not like Fury needs me, anyway.”

“If ya say so,” Bucky replied, subdued. He stretched up, pulling Clint to him by the scruff of his neck.

Buck’s lips were rough and chapped, catching at the bitten edges of Clint’s mouth. The hand holding his neck slid up through his hair, dislodging the arrow. Buck’s other arm encircled his waist, hauling Clint closer as his tongue flicked at Clint’s lower lip. Clint gasped, clutching at Bucky’s shoulders as he parted his lips.

“ _Guys!_ Come on, that’s my couch!”

Clint jerked back, startled. The arm around his waist caught him before he could tumble backward. Clint arched his back, letting his head fall so he could peer upside down at Steve.

“Relax,” Bucky said, his voice as thick and slow as molasses. “We kept the clothes on, didn’t we?”

Steve propped one hand on his hip, and used the other to cover his face. “No, no, it’s fine, Buck. Dry hump all over my furniture, why not. I only sit there.” Steve dropped his hand, and Clint blinked at the grin Steve tried to fend off. “I guess it’s only fair,” Steve continued in a strangled tone. “Since it saw plenty of me’n Tony last night.”

Bucky squawked, and forgot he held Clint up. He used both hands to cover his ears as Clint tumbled back, landing in a graceless sprawl on the floor at Bucky’s feet. Steve burst into laughter, one hand splayed across his chest as he bent at the waist. 

Clint waved off Bucky’s apology, content to remain on the floor as Bucky launched himself across the room to tackle Steve. Watching Bucky goof off was a new, rare sight, one that Clint treasured more than pretty much anything else. It was proof that Buck had fought his way free of the crap he’d lived through, proof that somewhere Bucky had decided the best way to make sure no one else won was for him to live his life. To be himself, whatever that meant for the day.

Steve clambered on Bucky’s back, the two idiots yelling all the while, and Clint’s smile faltered.  

“Some day,” whispered a bland, amused voice. “Some day soon, he’s going to realize you’re dead weight. He’s going to look at you and realize he doesn’t need you anymore.”  

Clint twitched, jaw flexing as he forced himself to stillness. He started counting his heartbeats.

The voice continued, undeterred. As it spoke, it warped, sliding easily between Phil’s carefully cultivated every-man’s accent and Loki’s cruel, delighted tone. “You really should cut your losses now, before you drag him down with you. Before you get him hurt. That’s what you do, isn’t it? Hawkeye, the man who nearly killed the Avengers. Who nearly surrendered the world.”

Clint popped his over-the-ear aids free and held them in one hand so he could rub at the hard cartilage at the base of his ears with his free hand.  Predictably, the voice carried on, undeterred. He went back to counting his breaths - in-two-three, out-two-three.

“How delightfully selfish you are, Clint Barton, to keep him so close.”

Bucky’s face appeared in his line of sight, eyebrows raised in question. Clint quickly popped his aids back in, blinking up at him. Buck ignored the aids, carefully signing a question down to Clint. “Are you okay?”

Clint nodded, blowing a sloppy kiss. Bucky’s expression shifted, became stern, but whatever he wanted to say next died under the onslaught of couch cushions Steve attacked him with. Clint rolled out of the way, waiting until both men were suitably distracted before throwing himself into the fray.

So much for being alone in his head for a while.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Nowhere in Clint's head is safe, not even his dreams. Bucky's mission starts, Clint is too spent to handle any more of his ghosts and Steve's just worried.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I honest to god did not expect anyone to get excited about this, so the fact that some of you loved this enough to comment, or subscribe just blows me away. I nearly threw this entire thing away probably a dozen times, and I'm so glad I stuck with it. You're all amazing and I love you dearly.  
> \--
> 
> There will be self-harm discussed/encouraged in this chapter because jerk characters are jerks.

Shouts never made it past his throat, but he tried anyway, over and over again until his phantom voice was hoarse and broken. His body moved, reacted, fought on independent of how hard he thrashed, tucked away inside his own mind. A smile that wasn’t his curled his mouth, bared his teeth. He couldn’t wake up.

So he screamed. He screamed, and begged for someone, anyone to listen.

Natasha kicked out, her leg flying in a graceful, deadly arc. The body anticipated her, though, and moved the barest second before she did, throwing his weight into a backflip. They landed out of her reach, hauling the last dagger free with nimble fingers Clint couldn't stop.

She charged, and the body, his body, let her. It knew her too well. _He_ knew her too well. Widow’s fist tore through the air, following a path which would have knocked the breath from his lungs, had it connected. He stepped into her, instead, catching her arm below the elbow and hauling her close. Clint tried to shout, to tell her to run, to stop holding back, but his face never changed.

Emerald eyes went wide, but she moved a beat too slow. She didn't believe he'd follow through, didn't believe he'd hurt her. Maybe she thought Clint could wrestle control back for her, that she could snap him free like she had once before.

It didn't matter what she believed. Clint was long since damned.

He ducked under her upraised arm, locking her body against his with a hand on the delicate column of her throat as he buried his blade in her kidney. Clint screamed her name, over and over, sobbing and begging into the silence.

His body watched her dispassionately, noting as her lush mouth dropped open, the tendons in her neck standing out in high relief. Natasha swallowed. Her hand fisted in the collar of his tactical suit. She tried to speak, and he twisted the blade, scrambling her insides. Warmth gushed over his fist, sticky and wet. She gave a soundless cry as he yanked the blade free, widening the hole in her back. 

Clint couldn’t stop screaming for her. Again and again he fought his body, desperate to stop himself. He failed, over and over and over again.

Blood and bile hung so thickly in the air he could roll the taste of her on his tongue. She tried to hold tight to him, tangling a hand about the nape of his neck when he released his grip on her throat. Eventually, her strength failed. Her body slid to the floor, graceful despite the ever expanding pool underneath her. Bright red hair obscured her face. He stepped over her, the Boss’s dulcet tones coming through his communicator, telling him where his next target hid.  
  
“Come out, come out, wherever you are…” Clint’s voice sang, lower than his voice had ever been. The target would be close by, the body knew that and took pleasure in it. Phil Coulson had never been one to skirt a fight.

_No_ , Clint cried silently. _No more._ He reached out and grabbed whatever he could, sunk his fingers deep into the darkness. _No_ , he bellowed, feeling the tendons in his wrist pop, feeling the fire in his phantom vocal chords as he howled. _I said, no._

Clint bolted upright in the darkness, both hands extended to thrust away the after-image of Nat bleeding out at his feet. He looked around wildly, his surroundings barely registering. Distantly, he knew his mouth moved, but he couldn’t hear his own voice. Panic built in his chest, tangled itself around his lungs and squeezed, left him still trapped inside his head. His heart thundered in his ears, frantic and terrified and he couldn't think.

He curled into himself, burying his face in his upright knees as he wrapped both arms around his head. Breathing hurt.

Behind his eyelids, Clint watched the last few seconds of his dream play out on repeat. Natasha, crumpling to the floor, one hand still reaching for him. Loki’s silk coated voice winding straight through his soul. Phil’s face as he rounded that last corner.

Phil’s face as Clint’s body had taken aim.

Not real, not real, he chanted to himself as hot tears soaked into the sheets over his knees.

The bed shifted, dipping under another person’s weight. Instinct had Clint scrambling away, landing on his ass beside the mattress. He scuttled back before flipping over and shoving himself upright. His chest heaved, his heart pounding unsteadily in his throat as he flailed about the dark room, trying to remember where something vaguely weapon-like might be. 

The darkness rendered his eyes useless, and his hearing aids tucked safely away for the night. He was unarmed and vulnerable and so fucking pathetic. He was going to die in his ratty purple boxers in a tower full of super humans. 

Clenching his fists controlled the shaking of his limbs, and hardened his resolve. There was no way in  hell was he going to make it an easy victory.

Light flared overhead. Clint ducked back,throwing up a hand to shield his eyes. He blinked rapidly until the spots resolved themselves into his bed, and a man.

Buck knelt near the edge of their mattress, hands up in the universal symbol of surrender, his hair a wild tangle. They stared at one another for a breath, frozen and unsure. Then, Bucky slowly extended one hand out, fingers stretching for Clint. The gesture broke something fragile in Clint’s chest, and he shook himself out of his defensive stance. He couldn’t make himself move closer, but he couldn’t look away either.

Bucky’s hands dropped, and he looked off to the side, pursing his lips. Clint watched as Bucky squared his jaw and sought out his gaze again. Slow, deliberate movements of his hands spelled out the word 'nightmare'. For some reason, Buck felt the need to tilt his head and arch his eyebrows up in an exaggerated, questioning expression.

Clint shrugged, still raw. Bucky's obvious concern only left him itching and uncomfortable. “I’m okay,” he said instead of answering. “Sorry I woke you up.”

Bucky waved his words away, asking in sign if Clint needed anything, if he could help. When Clint didn’t respond, Bucky glared and gestured for Clint to get back into bed, his mouth a hard line.

The voice from earlier echoed through his head, taunting him for being weak, for holding Buck down, and he hesitated. Bucky’s mouth moved, too fast for Clint to catch, although the frustration scrunching his face was familiar. Clint stood still as Bucky spilled to his feet and stalked closer.

Warm hands squeezed the back of his neck, his forehead resting against Clint's own. Clint caved, collapsed inward at the first press of fingertips. He knew there wasn’t much he could deny Bucky for long, had accepted that as his new reality ages ago, and if what Bucky wanted was Clint, then Clint was what he got. He buried his nose in Bucky’s throat, letting him wrap him up tight as Clint breathed in the unique blend of metal, sleep and man.

Bucky herded him back into the sheets, curling them together in such a way that Clint could see his hands while resting his head on Bucky’s chest.  Bucky’s thick fingers danced before his eyes, reminding Clint that nightmares sucked, and Buck was always there to help.

Clint couldn’t hold back his snort. He didn’t bother moving away when Buck cuffed him upside the head.

One silver finger slid under Clint’s chin, tipping his face up so he couldn’t avoid Bucky’s gaze. “I mean it,” he mouthed. Clint quirked a half smile at him in lieu of an answer.

Bucky sighed, and shoved until Clint sprawled on his back. “Guess I have to tire you out then,” he signed, motioning the lights off once he situated his hips between Clint’s legs. His mouth found Clint’s jaw, dragging over his cheek until it caught on his mouth.

Clint kissed back, desperate and needy, hands dragging Bucky closer. If this was what Bucky wanted for now, then this he could give.

* * *

 

Clint woke face down, fingers tickling the shorts hairs at the back of his neck. He whined and pressed his face deeper into his pillow, using his arms to cup the pillow around his ears. “C’mon, Buck. Sleepy time.”

Bucky buried his cold face in Clint’s neck, his giggles muffled.  He started humming into Clint’s skin, forcing icy fingers under Clint’s armpit to cover his heart.

Cursing, Clint tried to shove Bucky away, but his hand met only cool sheets.

All at once, he stilled. He should be alone in bed. And his aids were stored neatly on his bedside table - he shouldn’t be able to hear the sounds matching the vibrations against his skin. He might still have some hearing, but there was no way he should be able to make out the low, soft sound.

Slowly, he raised his head and turned towards the pressure against his body. Loki peered up at him through his eyelashes, coy.

Clint stilled. “Oh, no. Nope.” He rolled away, burying his head under Bucky’s pillow, still exhausted and drained from his nightmare. If he ignored it, it would go away. “It’s too early for this shit, I’m going back to sleep.” He took deep, measured breaths, sinking into the faint smell of Bucky and sex until the hallucinations faded.

Sleep wouldn’t come, no matter how long he hid in the empty bed. Not without Bucky, anyway. A quick peek proved the room to be ghost-free, so Clint shoved himself out of bed, snatching his aids up as he went. He yawned, scratching at a bruise on his hip as he stumbled his way into the kitchen for coffee.

Loki lounged along the counter, and Clint stopped dead, mid-stretch. When the apparition slanted a razor sharp smile his way, Clint dropped his hands and examined the rest of the room.

Only Loki remained out of place, no hint of Phil.

Clint leveled a finger at his personal demonic companion. “I am getting coffee.” He turned, careful to keep the lanky man at the edges of his vision as he made his way to the machine. Some tiny part of his brain, which sounded too much like Steve, wondered why he was being so lax about this. The rest of his mind kept flashing to the dramatic spill of ruby red hair around a white, white face he knew better than his own.

“Oh, are we speaking to me today? This is simply wonderful,” Loki simpered theatrically, one hand splayed across his chest. “I have been so lacking in good company while you utterly fail to ignore me.”

The coffee pot was full, warm and bore a neon pink post-it note. Bucky’s slanting cursive scrawl read, _“Coffee isn’t food. Don’t do anything stupid without me, jerkface. P.S. your hair is fuckin'_ _ridiculous.”_ He snorted at the awful little doodle of a gun at the bottom, and gulped directly from the glass container.

He never really knew what to make of Bucky’s stupid notes. They didn’t fit the pattern. Worrying about Clint Barton wasn’t a thing people did, unless he counted Phil Coulson. 

Reflex kicked in and his shoulders hunched up around his hears. Phil probably didn’t count. Aside from a few ‘ill-advised’ - Phil’s words, not his - rolls in the hay, Clint’s welfare had been part of Phil’s _job_. Hounding Clint to eat and sleep properly boiled down to keeping a weapon in prime condition, not whatever Clint hoped it might've meant. Even Buck moving in with him had been more to keep his night terrors from waking Steve, than about wanting to be closer to Clint.

If Clint carefully peeled the note free and set it aside to stash later, well, he’d never tell. He settled his lower back against the counter, eyes unfocused as he tried to puzzle Bucky out.

“Are you truly so blind, Barton?” Loki’s voice jarred him out of his head. “You said so yourself, even your precious handler only sought you out to ensure his tool was well cared for.”

“Did a better job’n you,” Clint retorted before he could think better of it.

Loki arched his eyebrows. “And yet here I am,” he mused, dropping his head back to speak to the ceiling, arms sweeping out before him. “Gracing you with my company whilst his specter cannot bear the sight of your pathetic, pining face. And why would he? You are the man who nearly killed the Avengers, nearly killed his precious, patriotic idol. The man who claimed to love him, yet tumbled into bed with the first body willing after his terribly tragic demise. A man, might I add, who may outdo you in innocent bloodshed.” Loki straightened, tilting his face to catch Clint’s gaze, his hands settling on his hips as he shook his head, slow and mocking. “You are quite the disgrace, aren’t you, Hawkeye?”

Clint squinted at him over the rim of the coffee pot. “Okay,” he mumbled. “I think I liked you better when you were going all Overlook Hotel on me.” He drained the coffee, turning to start a second batch. If his morning was any indication, he’d be better off begging an I.V. drip from Bruce.

Flipping Loki the bird, he stalked towards the bathroom. Loki ambled along after him. A shower would have been awesome, to wash away the residue from both his nightmare and Bucky’s late-night attentions. There was no way in hell he was stripping down now, not while Loki prowled around the room, spidery fingers touching everything. Instead, he grabbed a soft cloth, and made do with an army bath - a quick wipe down of the important bits.

He tossed the cloth into the basket in the corner of the room, and avoided his reflection as he scooped up his toothbrush. Loki continued to wander behind him. He didn’t need to speak, and he knew it. The thought was already in Clint’s head, and it wasn’t going away anytime soon.

Because Loki lived in his head, just another symptom of how fucked up he was, how unfit he was. Loki knew he’d tried, with Phil, to be better. Phil’s love for his job came first, and Clint had known that, accepted it even as he’d hoped Phil might be willing to bend the rules for him. But after every drunk, ‘we/you-almost-died’ moment, Phil would gently usher him back towards professional detachment. His eyes might linger, but he’d keep his hands to himself. Clint could take a hint, no matter what anyone said. He knew to leave it alone. And he’d been okay with it, okay with having him sometimes rather than not at all.

And then - and then Phil died. Shot through the chest because Clint hadn’t been able to fight past the ice in his brain.

Clint didn’t understand why Natasha, Cap and the rest hadn’t left him to rot in SHIELD’s bowels.  He’d handed Loki the keys to his portal, blown the helicarrier out of the sky. All the ruin, the deaths, the fucking chaos, all of it was on him. Clint Barton, lynchpin of the apocalypse. 

And how does he repay Steve’s rescue? By doing the horizontal tango with his best friend, the one guy in the world who’s brain might be more scrambled than his own. Stand up guy, right?

Clint spat out a mouthful of toothpaste, rinsing the brush more vigorously than necessary as he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. He looked up to store the brush, and caught his own eyes in the mirror. His mouth thinned to a bloodless slash and he hardened his jaw.

Even with Phil keeping him at a distance, Clint had gotten him killed. Bucky, who had _needed_ him, who had leaned on and relied on him, who had let Clint _care_ , who _understood_ \- Maybe it would be better if he walked away now, before Buck did it later. He didn’t need Clint, hadn’t for a while. It was just a matter of time.

His fist buried itself in the mirror before he realized his fingers had curled in on themselves. The glass cracked, but didn’t shatter. His reflection glared back at him, distorted. Ugly. Broken. 

Loki chuckled behind him. “Do try again. Feel free to put any shards that fall to good use. It’d be a shame to waste such bounty.”

Rather than reply and egg him on, Clint dug out the extensive first aid kit from the closet and set about wrapping his bruised knuckles.

“Oh, come now, little bird,” Loki said, dropping his voice into an overly contrite tone. “Surely you are not angry with me? Have you forgotten, I live within you. I know you’ve thought of it. My broken hero, surrounded by better men, and so alone.”

Clint snorted, unable to stop himself. “Natasha’s a woman, and she can take the rest of them down in her sleep.” He stuffed the kit back, and strode purposefully for the armoury.  

Between Bucky and himself, there were at least two dozen sets of throwing knives in the spare room alone. Clint snagged the first ones he found, six thin steel blades tucked into a soft black case. He slid them free, dropping the case as he managed to hook five onto the pinky of his wrapped hand by the holes in the handles. The sixth he held loosely in his left hand. He padded back into the kitchen, knowing Loki awaited him there.

Sure enough, Loki’s voice met him in the corridor. “Perhaps that is what drew me to you in the first place, little bird. All of those agents, scientists, in that room - and I chose you. Mayhap your loneliness spoke to me.”

Clint flung the first knife before he’d entered the room. It slid smoothly into the hollow of Loki’s throat.

Loki smiled, a wide, crazed display of teeth. “Or your anger, Barton. I do love a temper, and you taste of it so sweetly. Did your violence call to me?”

A second flick of his wrist, and another blade embedded itself in Loki’s groin, because Clint was nothing is not petty and childish. He smirked. Loki ran a fingertip over the curved hilt, flicking his pointed tongue along his lower lip.

“Did I perhaps smell the way you loathe yourself? Such self-hatred, so strong... it clings to you like a second skin. The way you know you will never be first, never be enough, never be worth the trouble you cause. Did something about your face sing to me, Barton? Why you? I could have had Fury, after all. The spy’s spy.”

Knives thunked into Loki’s open mouth, his eyes. Clint's mouth hardened into a grim, thin line.

“No,” Loki continued throatily. “You want to know what called me to you, Hawk? Loyalty. A fealty like no other, little bird. I knew, once I had you, you would be mine. And you remain thus, do you not? Still mine. How long, do you think, before your precious Soldier comes to realize that I have never left you- that I will always own you.” The last was whispered, as though to a lover, sweet and thick as honey. It made Clint's skin crawl. 

Clint spun the last blade around his fingers, biting the inside of his cheek until he tasted blood. The knife settled into his palm, point out, as he stalked across the tile, pressing himself into Loki's space. Swiftly, he thrust the tiny blade between Loki’s ribs, shoving it up and in as far as he could. Loki laughed, blood bubbling at his lips as it poured over Clint's hand in a twisted mirror of his dream.

“You don’t own me,” he snarled into Loki’s sharp, amused face. “Not now, not anymore, not ever again.”

“Clint?”

Clint’s eyes went wide and he jerked away from the empty wall where Loki had stood. The door to their floor was hard to hear on a good day, and he’d completely missed the flashing light over the entrance to the corridor, announcing someone's entry. He had two breaths to panic over the knives in the wall before Steve skidded into the open space of the kitchen.  

He waved, settling himself as nonchalantly against the counter as he could manage, grabbing at the coffee pot. He swallowed a mouthful, watching Steve’s gaze flash between the wierd array of throwing knives and Clint’s admittedly terrible attempt at casual.

“Yo, Cap,” he said, ignoring the strange, high note twining through his voice. “You need something? Buck went out this morning.” 

“I’m aware,” Steve answered, distracted. After another awkward pause, Steve crossed his arms and turned to face Clint head on. “There are knives in the wall.”

Clint pushed his eyebrows up, tilting his head a little and gesturing with the coffee pot. “Yup.” Only sheer force of will kept him from popping the p obnoxiously.

“Knives. In the wall,” Steve jerked a thumb towards them as though Clint needed the help.

“Yup,” Clint repeated, indulging himself by dragging the syllable out now. “Happens sometimes.”

Steve sighed, letting his arm drop at he used the other hand to pinch the bridge of his nose. “You tripped Jarvis’ emergency protocols.”

“Uh. No. No, I did not.”

It was Steve’s turn for sarcastic eyebrow raising. “Your hand is wrapped. There are knives in the wall. And I heard shouting when I opened the door. You’re the only one on the entire floor, Clint.”

“Well, yeah, but I’ve done all that crap before without Jarvis sending up a babysitter.”

Steve opened and closed his mouth a few times before he sighed, shoulders slumping. “I’m going to ignore that right now.” He rolled his shoulders, and bit at his lip, dragging it back out between his teeth. Steve’s eyes dropped to his feet and his fingers flexed.

Clint slumped farther back, taking another swig of cooling coffee.  Wait for it, he thought. Wait for it...

“Listen, Clint-”

And there it is.

“When you’n Buck took up together, I’d." He paused and made a face, presumably at himself. "Well, I’d hoped you’d be good for each other, even one another out. And for a while, that seemed to be working.” He scowled down, hands planting themselves on his hips as he thought.

Clint waited, quietly draining his coffee.

“Buck’s doing worlds better now, and I know, I _know_ that a lot of that’s because of you. You get him and what he’d been through in ways I can’t. But you lived through it too, and the two of you need that.” Steve cleared his throat and raised his gaze to Clint’s face. He shoved a hand through his hair, upsetting the neatly styled locks.

“You gave him a reason to be happy. He gave you a reason to try. You were both so- empty, before. I can’t thank you enough for what you’ve done for him, Clint. He was in a real dark place and you helped him feel human again, and I am so fucking grateful.”

“I... thanks? You’re welcome?” Clint replied, off balance. He hadn’t done a damn thing for Bucky Barnes, not really.

Steve wasn’t done, though, from the way he rocked back on his heels and flicked his tongue over his lip. “Something’s not right, though. And that’s fine, that’s okay, but— .” He cut himself off, face screwed up in disgust. “Jarvis is worried about you. Buck’s doing his mother hen routine, which he doesn't pull out for just anyone. No, Clint, listen.”

Guiltily, Clint eased his mouth closed.  
  
“Look, we’re all worried about you, but we can’t help if you don’t talk to us. To someone, anyone.”

Clint made a noise, deep in his throat. He moved to rinse out the empty coffee pot, stiff and robotic.

“You’re part of this family,” Steve continued, voice low and earnest. It sounded like he’d been rehearsing. “With or without that A on your vest, you are part of the team.”

Clint snorted, rolling his eyes as he turned back to face Steve. “I’m good, Cap.”

Steve sighed, rubbing at the back of his neck. “Every time Buck takes a mission, you get worse. Hell, sometimes you get worse when he leaves the room.” Clint flinched, but Steve barreled on.

“You’re withdrawn. You have erratic violent episodes. That’s not ‘good,’ okay? You can’t-.” He ran his hand down his face, muffling an irritated grunt.

Steve sucked in a breath through his teeth, and let it whistle back out. “You can’t use Buck as a means to hold yourself up. It’s not fair to either of you.”

Clint jerked back, jaw falling lax as he gaped. Steve’s words burrowed into his gut, twisting and writhing enough to make him sick. “You think I’m- that I’m fucking _using_ him?” Clint’s voice came out strangled and shattered. He wiped hard at his mouth, unable to look at Steve.

“What? No, Clint, that’s not what I meant,” Steve replied, stepping closer.

“I’m not fucking using him,” Clint bit out, hand clenched and trembling. “I’m _not._ ”

“Alright,” Steve said, voice soft. He stepped into Clint’s line of sight, hands raised. “Okay.”

After it became clear that Clint had no intention of responding, Steve let his hands fall. He said, “When you’re ready to talk, just know that any one of us will listen. In the meantime, why don’t you come with me to the gym? Sparring always helps settle me down. Might help you, too.” Steve retreated, steps silent.

Clint found himself staring at the knives still embedded in his wall, fingernails biting into the meat of his palm.  “I’m not,” he repeated, the words tasting hollow and bitter on his tongue. Loki’s shrill laugh echoed in his head.

He pushed himself away from the counter. If nothing else, letting Cap use him as a punching bag might keep his body too busy for thought. He grabbed a bow on the way out the door.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you enjoyed the chapter!
> 
> Next chapter - Bucky's turn to pout dramatically into the sunset. dun dun dunnnnn. 
> 
> Mommalosthermind @tumblr


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Since Fury sent him on a milk run, Bucky decides to take the time to sort his head out, away from Clint. At least, until the mission turns out to be something a little more involved.

It’d been ages since Clint finally given into his exhaustion; hours since Bucky had taken him apart with his mouth, and stitched him back together with his hands. Now, Clint’s body was melting into their mattress, sleep stealing the rigid line from his shoulders and smoothing out the creases by his eyes. Drool puddled into his pillow, his hair standing in unruly tufts.

He was heartbreakingly beautiful. Or maybe he was just beautiful, and Buck was an idiot. Clint’s pretty face wasn’t why Bucky felt like his heart was splintering, after all.

Once, Bucky would have taken advantage of Clint’s state to indulge in a round of peacocking, smug in the knowledge that he was the reason Clint slept so peacefully. Hell, he might’ve even let himself sink into the velvety soft feeling of Clint’s faith — his ability to be so vulnerable with Bucky beside him. Given in and traced the hard line of Clint’s jaw, the arch of his crooked nose. Then, he would have molded his body around whatever strange position Clint was in and conked out, pleased and content.

There were a lot of things he’d have done, before.

Before Bucky realized how wrong he’d been. How ...naive? He snorted. Stupid might be a better word, since a lifetime of having his body and mind used as a weapon left him too damaged for labels like naive. Nothing about him could be mistaken for something innocent or trusting.

Never mind that Buck’d taken one good look at the dunce snoring away beside him and done just that. Stepped right off that ledge and let himself believe.

The night seemed to hang heavier than usual, pressing down on them, as Bucky stared at the slope of Clint’s shoulders in the scant moonlight. He knew he was breathing too shallow, too caught up in his own head to be rational.

Then again, he’d never been real good at rational, not when his heart was involved. Emotions. They’d been his downfall, time and time again. His temper hadn’t ever been as hot and fierce as Steve’s but it had always been easy to spark. Steve had always been the dragon fire to Bucky’s lightning. They’d spent more time in trouble than not, getting into brawls they couldn’t win.

Mama used to call him Little Kitten, for his insatiable curiosity and how it got him into the strangest jams. All paws and no sense, she’d laughed, wiping her hands on her apron to pull him out of whatever it was. Sometimes literally, like when he’d gotten stuck between the slats of the stairs.

Not that he’d minded much, since he’d been six and looking for treasure. It’d been fun, and he could remember giggling as she’d scooped him up, like a photograph touched too often, soft around the edges, the colors long since faded.

Once upon a time, Bucky would throw his whole head back when he laughed, the sound coming from deep in his chest to fill the room. He’d been a pretty happy fella, back then, always with a smile and a wink.

But he’d had bad days, too, and he hadn’t been ashamed to show it. Never understood why tears on his face made the other boys think he'd be an easy mark. Didn’t take long to prove ‘em wrong, though.

And when he fancied himself in love? He was useless.

He’d always felt too much. The more he regained himself, the harder it seemed to be, managing the mess inside. Anything resembling an emotional outburst had found him shoved back in the chair. Nearly an entire lifetime of having his feelings literally ripped away, of being punished, brutalized, for daring to be human enough to feel.

It meant he honestly didn’t know if he could trust himself. Didn’t know if he was seeing things that weren’t there. Didn’t know if… if the problem lay with him, or with Clint.

He couldn’t remember what it was like to be sure, to have confidence in his own emotional awareness. To know, to be able to identify the sensation in his ribcage and then do something about it.

Bucky felt tears prickle, just behind his eyes. Shame welled up inside him, wrapped closely around the complicated knot weighing down his stomach. Feelings, things so strong and wild they might as well burst from his skin, things he couldn’t even begin to pry apart and name.

Christ, he didn’t know. No, he didn’t believe. Bucky ran his tongue over his teeth. He wasn’t even making sense inside his own head.

Ghosting careful fingers down Clint’s spine seemed to be the only thing keeping Bucky from falling apart. It probably counted as ironic, considering Clint was the reason he felt like he was going to dissolve into the night.

Clint slept on, oblivious. It hurt Bucky’s heart, watching him wiggle in his sleep, his body moving in tiny increments until Clint pressed his side all along Bucky’s front. It took entirely too much effort not to twine himself around Clint and breathe him in, fit his hand to the matching bruise blossoming on Clint’s hip.

It burned, extracting himself from Clint, from the bed. Cursing himself for his weakness, Bucky let himself stand at the edge of the bed for another moment, drinking him in with his eyes. Clint sighed, one hand flopping out into the indent left by Bucky’s body. Closing his eyes against the need to crawl back into his still warm spot, Bucky let out a shuddering breath.

Once his eyes fluttered open, Bucky resolutely kept his gaze away from the bed and its sole, captivating occupant. Instead, he rounded up his boxers and slipped out of the room. He was never sure exactly how much Clint could hear, wincing at the slight click of the door closing behind him.

A quick shower helped to settle his frayed nerves. He had an hour before he needed to meet up with Natasha. Restless, he wandered into the kitchen. Keeping the light low, Bucky found himself pulling out various items, watching from afar as his hands settled into a familiar routine. The odds of Clint checking the fridge weren’t overly high, but making the casserole soothed something in him anyway.

He hated leaving, even as he hated being cooped up and under watch. But leaving something, something specifically for Clint, while he was away? It left tiny bubbles of warmth in his belly. Like he was taking care of him. And if it was as close to his Mama’s as he could get with modern day ingredients? Only Stevie’d know.

Not that Clint handled his pampering any better than Steve ever had. Although Steve tended to call it mollycoddling. As if Bucky was somehow looking down on them, which hadn’t made a lick of sense in the ‘30’s, and made even less sense now.

Mama’d made noises about Bucky being a natural caregiver, which always made him blush and made his sisters giggle, but she wasn’t wrong. Mostly. Bucky liked looking out for his people, even if most of his ‘caregiving’ involved insults and boxing ears. Although that might be because he kept picking people who were too bullheaded to live.

He shook himself, and turned to sprinkle cheese into the pan.

For all Clint looked as though he’d rather pitch himself out the nearest window than have Bucky try to aggressively love him, the jerk had zero problems turning it around. It was pretty obvious he’d asked Jarvis to keep an eye on Buck — no matter how many times Clint claimed to have a ‘Bucky Sense’, the guy turned up too often in the right areas for coincidence.

And now here Bucky was, stuffing food into the fridge and cleaning up his mess so he could disappear on a mission, right after another one of Clint's episodes. Even knowing there wasn’t any way to predict a nightmare, knowing he’d agreed to the bullshit op hours and hours beforehand… it didn’t sit right. Not at all.

He should be there when Clint drags his ass out of bed. He should be there. Clint hadn’t let him fall apart alone, not once, not since they fell in together. He should be there, be the first thing Clint sets his goddamn eyes on, should make sure he knows he’s not alone.

Bucky let himself slump forward, forearms braced on the counter as he hung his head. Because that was the kicker, wasn't it? Clint was always there, even when Buck wanted him so far gone he might as well be in Antarctica — but Clint never, never let Bucky return the favor.

No, Clint would wake up and pretend everything was peachy keen. Lie right to his face; pour coffee into his maw by the pot and throw around wide, fake smiles like they didn’t leave his eyes dead until Bucky backed off. And God, did it ache.

Shoving himself up, Bucky slunk away to the armory, stuffing himself into his gear and shouldering his already packed bag. It took a handful of breaths before he could make himself leave. But leave he did, head bowed and heart heavy as he made his way to the garage. Natasha had beaten him there, presumably so she could ensure her place behind the steering wheel of the SUV. He didn’t care; he slung his bag in the back and pooled himself in the passenger seat.

The operation was too ridiculous to even really count as a mission. Fury’d given them a pair of locations, abandoned now, but possibly former Hydra properties. They were supposed to poke around and see if they could find anything new. Waste of time for someone of Natasha’s abilities and just laughable for Bucky himself. But, he figured, that was kind of the point.

“You alright?” Natasha asked some time later, her low voice pulling Bucky out of the blank space in his head. He grunted, unwilling to break his silence just yet. Instead, his mind went right back to where he didn’t want it to be. Maybe a few days away would prove to be a good thing, give him time to get his thoughts together.

Clint Barton had proven to be his saving grace, time and time again. Steve had crowded too close, tried too hard to make him fit into the Bucky shaped spot from before the war. Everyone else’s voices had been too loud, their gazes too frantic, hard on his skin. But Clint, he knew.

He understood why Bucky was such a wreck, why he’d flinch and startle. Clint knew how to handle Bucky, knew how to engage him better than Bucky did, never mind the rest of them. Then again, Clint knew all the places where Bucky had been hollowed out. Clint knew all the spots in Bucky’s soul that had faded into nothing, and knew all the spots on his skin he couldn't bleach.

And Clint had never made him feel less, never made him explain.

Bucky tilted his head back against the seat, watching the sun crest over the horizon. They were a pair, him and Clint. Both sharp shooters who'd had their brains scrambled, an ocean’s worth of guilt spilling from their red hands.

When Steve had first dragged him home like the stray dog he was, Bucky hadn’t known anything about the scruffy archer with the bags under his eyes. When someone had let slip that Clint suffered something similar to his own captivity, Bucky had avoided him. For weeks, Bucky would slip out of any room when he approached, would hide around corners or haunt Steve’s apartment. It had left him bruised, wondering why the floor remained clean when he felt like he’d been gutted every time he laid eyes on Clint.

Rationally, Bucky knew the situations weren’t comparable. Weren’t the same. That didn’t stop him from wanting to scream at the way it all seemed so unfair. He’d been brainwashed into a machine, a mindless, nameless shell. He didn’t know up from down, didn’t know the face in the mirror, woke night after night without a voice left from screaming… and there was Clint, wandering around fresh as daisies, always with something stupid ready to tumble out of his smart mouth.

He’d been so sure, so convinced, that he just hadn’t been strong enough, hadn’t been resilient enough. Maybe he hadn’t fought hard enough, and that was why Clint seemed fine while Bucky ghosted through the motions to shut Steve up.

Idiot. How could he have been so blind, not to see how damaged Clint was earlier? All the time spent looking, without really paying attention.

Maybe it had been arrogance, the way he’d written off the little signs. After all, it wasn’t that unusual to see someone with a weapon in the tower. Clint and his arrow or his bow seemed mild compared to everyone else’s touchstones. Buck had three knives on him at all times and his arm was built to be a weapon. Natasha had toys stashed everywhere, and he wouldn’t be surprised in the slightest to discover she carried a flamethrower in her hair. Steve’s shield was never far, Thor’s hammer and Tony’s armor were only a command away and Bruce’s weapon lived inside his skin. What was a little fiddling with a pointy stick to that?

Even when Clint’s stream of terrible jokes died down… it was easy to chalk it up to a restless night. Bucky had walked the tower at night enough to know that no one slept well for long.

But once Bucky started to settle and pay attention, to use the common sense his Mama gave him, that all fell apart. Clint stared off into space, but like he was watching something Bucky couldn’t track, instead of the blank, glazed look of the exhausted. Bucky had caught him snarling, cursing in empty rooms. Loud noises left him twitchy and he had a strong aversion to specific shades of blue. Bucky had lists and lists of things, that might seem little and inconsequential on their own, but once they were put together? There was no denying something was wrong.

And then Clint had kissed him. Buck ran his tongue along his lower lip, warmth filling his belly as he remembered how Clint had stared at him, wide-eyed. Clint had just said, “Oh,” in a voice soft with wonder, like he’d had a revelation, before he’d closed the distance between them, peppering Bucky's face with desperate kisses. Things had seemed to even out for a while after that, for the most part.

His eyes went unfocused as he stared out the window, the world turning into a stream of colors as he remembered how Clint had felt in his arms, that first time.

The willful ignorance lasted until Buck screwed up the nerve to crawl into Clint’s bed, and somehow never left. The charade fell apart straight off — Clint’s nightmares made sure of that. The man himself didn’t always wake up, but his noises or thrashing woke Buck every night without fail. It had taken time to learn the best ways to pet Clint back to sleep, to catalogue and recognize the specific spasms that meant Clint would crash into consciousness.

It’d only taken Clint mistaking Buck as the enemy twice for Buck to learn to stay put when he woke.

And he’d only asked Clint about Phil once before he knew to keep his mouth shut. Watching him go bloodless, wide-eyed and broken - Buck had taken bullets to the gut that sucked less. Clint had avoided him for an entire twenty-four hours, until Buck had tracked him down and hauled him to bed.

But Clint called out for Phil more nights than he didn’t, and Buck couldn’t leave well enough alone. Steve talked about the invasion, how Loki had cut down the high-ranking agent before launching Thor from the helicarrier, how the man had seemed kind and competent. But Steve made Phil seem like just another SHIELD suit, and the way Clint said his name at night… Phil had been more, so much more than just a handler.

During his darker moments, Bucky found himself wondering if Clint kept him at arm's length because he wasn’t the right shape to fill the hole in Clint’s chest. Because Bucky wasn’t what he wanted. Buck was just a placeholder for a dead man. Or was Bucky his screwed up attempt at penance? Say ten Hail Mary’s, save a lost soul and consider your hands clean.

Clint would inevitably slink into whatever hole Buck was in before he could fall too deep into that cesspit. Bump shoulders with him and quirk a grin and dissolve all of Bucky’s self doubt for a little while longer.

He wasn’t sure how much longer he could go without confronting him about it. Not knowing felt like it was going to drive him insane.

Nails bit into the soft shell of his ear, and he yelped, jerking his head to the side hard enough to nearly brain himself on the window. Straightening up in the seat, he cracked his knee against the dash and swore.

Natasha just arched a delicate eyebrow at him before returning her eyes to the road. “ETA ten, Barnes. Get your head in the game and out of Barton’s disaster zone."

* * *

 

Target number one lay near the heart of New Jersey, because of course it did. “Fuckin’ Jersey?” Bucky muttered for probably the hundredth time as they prowled outside the building.

Natasha blew out an exasperated breath. “Yes, Jersey. Shut up, Brooklyn, and deal with it.”

“I’m just sayin’, a Hydra cell in New Jersey would explain so many things.”

Once they confirmed the building’s abandonment, Bucky picked the lock and let them in. “I’ll never understand your dislike for an entire state,” she said as she followed on his heels.

“It’s Jersey.” He’d never say it aloud, but he was grateful she’d started their usual banter.

“Yes? And?”

The building, a long, low slung rectangle, was either being used as a dumping ground for the locals, or had been cleaned out in a hurry. Chairs, desks, cabinets and more were left haphazardly around the open spaces, a good portion of it in disrepair. Exchanging shrugs, they wandered deeper into the mess.

“Whaddya mean, ‘and’? There ain’t no ‘and’, it’s _Jersey_.”

“Ah,” Natasha said, giving an exaggerated nod. “So it’s a New York thing.”

“What? No, everyone hates Jersey.”

“New York,” Natasha repeated, stepping around an upturned filing cabinet. “This place looks pretty turned over already.”

“That a surprise? Thought half the point was they might’ve left somethin’ behind if they had to clear out in a hurry.”

To kill time more than anything else, they went through the building a second time, pulling out drawers and moving furniture. Predictably, they found nothing.

“We sure this isn’t a wild goose chase?” Bucky asked as they made their way back to the car. He jerked a thumb over his shoulder. “Or just Fury wantin’ to see how long it takes before I lose my temper?”

“Always possible. It’s Fury,” Natasha responded as they climbed back into their seats. “The buildings are owned by a corporation we’ve only recently proven to be a shell for Hydra. No harm in ensuring the place is dead.”

Buck messed with the lever beside his seat until he could lay back and drape his hands over his head. “Still sounds like we’re pokin’ around just for shits and giggles.”

Nat flashed him a toothy grin. “That’s ‘cause we are. Now shut up and take a nap, you look like hell.”

Buck woke later to Natasha’s wet fingertip corkscrewing in his ear. “What the fuck, woman,” he shrieked, trying to flail away and cover his ears at the same time.

She gave him a bright smile and chirped, “We’re here!”

“I will find a way to kill you in your sleep.”

“Oh, please do, it’s been awhile since I’ve been able to practice my sleep-murder.”

When Bucky only glared, she relented and gave a little laugh. “You’ve been asleep for hours. I got bored. Be glad I didn’t sharpie your face.”

‘Here’ turned out to be half a mile away from the second target, outside some tiny town in Pennsylvania. As Buck clambered free of the vehicle, he felt his eyebrows climb up his face. “We in a baby forest?”

“Jackass,” Natasha tossed back. “The vegetation will hide the SUV. Our warehouse is up around that bend,” she gestured ahead of their position. Together, they did a quick run through of their gear, double-checking weapons before Widow gave Buck a sloppy salute.

“Permission to march, sir?”

“Fuck off, an’ get goin’.”

Buck kept them away from the road, not wanting to get too over confident that this location would be as useless as the first. If it was, he’d be home before Clint woke up tomorrow, which would be... nice. He swallowed, hating himself for the hesitation. It would be good, to be back, and to crawl into bed and hold the little bastard. It’d also be good to finally say what needed to be said, no matter how much he didn’t want to hear Clint’s response.

They rounded the bend, and Bucky came to a dead stop. “Are you shitting me,” he asked, flat and unamused.

‘Run down’ would be too kind a word for the mess Buck found himself staring at. Run down could be overhauled and fixed up. This place was far beyond saving. The parking lot, only recognizable by the pair of streetlights in the center, was a sea of waist high weeds, and saplings. One entire wall of the ruins seemed to only be standing due to the vines crawling up its length. Streaks of black along the closest corner could only mean fire, and every single window was boarded shut. The place wasn’t run down, it was forgotten, and had long since been reclaimed by the wild.

Natasha didn’t even pause. “You coming?”

Grumbling, Bucky followed. Getting in was as easy as prying the door free of the trailing length of vine and shoving it open. Buck made a face, not bothering to free his weapon from its holster, though his hand hovered nearby. The warehouse was shrouded in shadow, only thin slivers of sunlight making it past the boards.

It was also empty.

“Remind me to kick Fury’s ass until he starts givin’ me real work,” Bucky groused, stepping inside.

“Will do.”

“Sound a little more gleeful, wouldja?”

Natasha only snickered and pulled a thin flashlight from seemingly thin air. Bucky sighed and jerked his head to the side, gesturing for Natasha to take the opposite side of the building.

Halfway down the length of the building, a soft snap brought Bucky’s attention back to Natasha. She crouched, penlight illuminating an irregular patch of floor at her feet. As Buck moved closer, he realized it was a large square, with hinges flush against the floor on one side. Nat flicked the penlight, sliding her small beam of light along the suspiciously dust free floor until it hit the wall. Four feet off the ground a small panel hung open on the wall, with a keypad visible.

“Okay,” Buck murmured, catching Natasha’s grim expression. “Maybe not so empty?”

“Want me to work on the code? Or just muscle it open?”

Rather than respond, Bucky ran his hand down the trap door until he found the small divot that worked as a handle. He glanced up, eyebrows raised in challenge. Natasha only wrinkled her nose and shifted, spreading her feet to distribute her weight better as she aimed her free hand, and its powerful shock bracelet towards the door.

Bucky hauled the door back, revealing a dark hole underneath.

“Well, that was anticlimactic,” Natasha said, amusement making her voice even huskier. “Didn't even squeak.” Her weak light shifted, catching on something wooden. “Staircase. You want point?”

“You’re enjoying the prospect of jumping into an unknown, dark hole too much. You go.”

At the base of the stairs, Bucky found a light switch, which lit up a row of long, thin tubes along the ceiling. In turn, the bulbs revealed an office, half the size of the warehouse above it, with cubicles scattered along the left and center. Rooms with real walls and doors lined the right. Other items had once filled the spaces between cubicles, from the grooves in the floor.

Bucky found himself staring at an ugly, plastic potted plant. “Who the hell puts an office under a warehouse?”

“Bad guys?” Nat murmured, ruffling Bucky’s hair as she stepped further into the room.

“Right. Sure. Why don’t you check out the offices, see if they left a computer or somethin’ for you to jimmy. I’ll take the rest.”

She melted away, leaving him to storm towards the cubicles. He picked one at random, quickly rifling through the papers on the small desk before moving onto the next. The first two seemed to hold accounting information for several businesses, and he took quick pictures with his phone. The third held only dust, but the fourth proved to have records of suspicious requisitions.

He'd scoped out two drawers out of six in the massive filing cabinet before he heard a small pop from the comm. unit, rather than a steady stream of Nat’s barely audible muttering or rustling paper.

Straightening, he scoped out the room over the short walls of the cubicle. The air remained still, but his heart fluttered in his chest. He wasn’t sure which room she’d vanished into. Another sharp little noise over his comm., hard on the heels of a quick inhale and his Stark Special was free of its holster before he’d had time to think.

Natasha’s voice hissed in his ear, low and urgent. “Fall back, Winter. Fall back now.” 

“Like hell,” he breathed back, dropping into a crouch, his spine flush against the cloth wall. Licking his lips, he peeked around the opening. No one had entered behind them, but he trusted the worry in her voice. “Status and location, Widow.”

Two heartbeats. Seven. Twelve. She didn’t respond. “Widow, report.” Buck couldn't help the loop of curses in the back of his head. “Widow?” There was only one entry point, what had she found? What could have rattled her? He was missing something important and he  _hated_ it.

“Natasha!” He whisper-shouted, cupping one hand around his mouth.

Swearing violently, Buck ditched his cover, running in a crouch towards the closest open office his gun held in a teacup grip, pointed out and down. His skin prickled with awareness as he scanned the room. Last he’d seen her, she’d been halfway through the row, towards the back of the room. No way was he leaving her.

Instincts he’d learned to trust implicitly during a lifetime having half his mind locked away screamed and he twisted to the side, flesh hand flung out to steady himself. His metal fingers never wavered in their grip on his weapon.

Something streaked by him, to plunge into the fabric wall of the cubicle he’d just left. Buck snarled wordlessly, slewing himself around to face the unknown threat. A second object thunked near his feet: a silver dart no bigger than his finger.

It distracted him just long enough for something to bury itself in the meat of his thigh, sharp, sudden and fucking painful. He swiped a hand down to knock the dart free, stumbling closer to the dubious refuge of the office. A fourth dart knocked into his bionic limb - he managed to catch it and crush it in his inhuman fist. His back against the firm, solid wall, Bucky leveled his weapon towards the stairs. Only, the landing was empty.

Bucky canvassed the room, keeping his back pressed tight to the wall as his gun followed his line of sight around the room. He took deliberate, deep breaths intended to reign in his galloping heartbeat, praying fruitlessly that it would slow whatever had been injected into his bloodstream.

Movement caught his attention, splitting his focus. Automatically, his gun leveled itself at the man stepping out of the farthest cubicle on the right, a dart gun in his hands. Buck pulled a second handgun free from its place on his thigh, aiming it toward the door opening on his left.

“So glad you could make it, Sergeant,” the woman said, resting her weight against the doorframe. “We’ve been waiting.”

Buck sneered at her, and her accomplice fired off several more darts in rapid succession. One bit deep into his side as he threw himself forward into a roll, returning fire once he’d regained his feet. The man retreated, seeking cover behind the flimsy material of the cubical.

The woman clucked her tongue, but didn’t move from where she lounged against the frame. “Unnecessary.”

Bucky’s next bullet dug into the wood above her head. She didn’t even flinch.

“I’d be careful with that,” she said, gesturing lazily towards him. “Looks like you might be having some trouble, there.”

His hands were trembling. All at once, Bucky realized he couldn't seem to get enough air. His heart stuttered and began to pound as his vision blurred and doubled.

“The fuck,” he grit out, stepping back, closer to the solid comfort of the wall, “was in that thing?”

“Something special, just for you, Sergeant.” Her smile was full of teeth, as though she’d eat him where he stood, if given half a chance.

The woman stalked closer, ignoring how Bucky inched back until he slumped against the wall. He tried to shoot, to warn her away with a spray of bullets, but he couldn't get his fingers to respond. Desperate, he dropped his backup, forcing his hand to cup the grip of the modified gun Tony had made. “Fuck,” he wheezed, as his next shot went miles wide.

“Mmm. Fine motor seems to be ruined already.” She sounded pleased, as she swam in and out of focus before his eyes. “What if I…”

Her foot caught him at the knee and he folded, easy as a house of cards. The gun went spinning away from him. Sluggish, but determined, Buck forced himself back to his hands and knees.

“Oh, stay down, please. It’s no fun when you’re too useless to fight back.” She appeared in front of him like magic. “Took a lot of finagling to get our hands on you, kid. You better be worth it.” One press of her fingertip to his temple and he crashed back to the floor. The world spiraled, thinner and thinner, until he was left with only darkness.

* * *

 

There were countless changes between his time and now, but none seemed so strange as the way the city never allowed the night to settle properly. It was both comforting and disturbing. Even the fractured half remembered Brooklyn of his youth hadn’t let moonlight slow it down - moonrise had meant a different tune to follow.

He watched through the windows, admiring the ever-changing lights beneath him as the city breathed. It was beautiful and alive.

Inside the tower was quiet and dark, rare enough to be beautiful in its own right. Everyone else must have found pleasant dreams tonight.

Dreams weren’t an option, not for him. Not anymore. His head was an ugly, ruined place.

But the night, soft at the edges, and kept out by glass, let him pretend.

He wandered the floors alone, aimless, footfalls silent, not bothering with any of the lights. Every so often, he would slow to a stop and just feel the silence in his bones. It was heavy, pressing down on him from all sides, opening his soul up to the world at large.

He couldn’t breathe.

He was breathing better than he had in decades.

This was the first time he’d felt alone in his own head since… before he could remember.

His drifting took him by the training simulator, trailing his flesh and blood fingers along the walls. The door to the control area was open, the light flooding the corridor. It stung his eyes.

Curious, he peeked inside. He’d been pretty sure he would find Stevie in the middle of some routine or another, seeking to fight his own demons with his fists again.

Instead, he found the archer. Upside down.

Rope dangled from some kind of hook arrow embedded in the ceiling. Barton had it wrapped around his ankle and calf, his opposite foot keeping it in place. He held a bow in his hands, arrows clenched between his teeth as he loosed. Images blinked in and out of sight without rhyme or reason.

His faded purple tee was bunched around his armpits and flopped over his chin, exposing the hard planes of his chest and stomach. There was a bandage covering the jut of one hip, and more scattered along his limbs. Thick muscles bunched in his arms as he pulled back.

He was holding onto his quiver with his naked toes.

A new target flashed to life just beneath Barton’s position. Lightning quick, Barton released his hold on the rope, dropping his bow and quiver, using his fall to launch himself at the transparent man in a huge horned cap. He used both hands to thrust his arrow through the image’s face.

It flickered out of sight as Barton continued to fall. The idiot botched his landing, getting his leg tangled in the last bit of rope. Only a quick twist saved him from a broken ankle. He landed heavily on his back with a groan. “Aw, floor. Why.”

The Soldier— no. James? Bucky. He was Bucky. Bucky hadn’t thought to stifle his snort of laughter.

Barton pushed himself up onto his elbows and graced Bucky with a cocky smirk and a pair of middle fingers.

* * *

 

The memory slid away, leaving smears behind as Bucky blinked up at the ceiling, sluggish and lost.

He lifted a hand to rub the sand from his dry eyes, but his arm only twitched, distantly. He blinked, too out of it to focus his eyes. Thoughts as slow as molasses, Bucky wondered if Tony had made good on his threat to invent a strong enough drink for him and Stevie. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d felt so hungover.

Hungover.

The thought twisted and tugged at him. He wasn’t hungover. He was drugged.

Panic and adrenaline surged through him, giving him enough strength to force his eyes wide, though they rolled wildly in their sockets. He let them shutter closed. This time, when he tried to move, he registered thick bands clamped around his wrists and biceps, with more pinning his legs.

He went to open his mouth, to call out for — someone, someone was missing — his jaw wouldn’t open. Breathing heavily through his nose, Bucky managed to force his tongue past his lips. It met something hard and metallic, all across the expanse of his mouth.

“Sir,” the voice seemed to slap him across the face. He jerked.

What the fuck had they given him? Who was missing?

“The Soldier is showing signs of—”

Natasha. Nat had known they were coming. Had she gotten out?

“Dose him again.”

Bucky tried to peel his eyes open again, only to have a hand clap over his face.

“With all due respect, if we—”

“Dose. Him. Again.”

Buck barely registered the pinch at his neck before he fell back into the oily thickness of his own mind.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The amount of time I spent trying to figure out if there even is a correct form of 'hungover' is ridiculous. Guess it depends on your country of origin and how much you care that day. Word says 'hung-over' but I don't like how it looks. Whoops.
> 
> Hope Buck was as interesting as Clint so far! Thanks for reading!


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Clint tries and fails to navigate through the rest of his day without Bucky like a rational, mature adult. Tony's tired of his bullshit, and Steve might have his head in the sand.

“Tap! I’m tapping out, Jesus _Christ_ , get off me already.” Clint wheezed, slapping at the mat. The mountain on his chest rolled away, leaving Clint to suck in great heaving gasps of air. He pressed one hand along his ribs; half convinced his lungs had collapsed.

Steve chuckled as he pushed himself back up to his feet. “Ready to admit you’re out of practice yet?” He offered Clint a hand, laughing again when Clint batted it away. “You should’ve seen that last one coming a mile off, though. What were you looking at?”

“Nothing,” Clint grunted. Steve gave him a skeptical look, but for once, Clint wasn’t even lying. Feeling someone watching didn’t mean they were there. It was hell on his nerves. “Yeah, sure. You want to go again, or are you calling it quits?”

Clint glared, still panting. Steve proffered his hand again, and this time Clint clasped it tight in his own. Clint yelped when Steve yanked him upright too fast, sending him tumbling into Steve’s arms. Somehow their legs tangled and only Steve's quick reflexes kept them from falling. It took several curse-filled moments to work themselves apart. Steve's steady grip on Clint's shoulder kept him from pulling them both straight back down.

Loud, full-bellied laughter startled them both as it echoed across the training space. Steve lit up, turning towards the sound with a wide smile. Clint huffed, his chest still heaving as he bent at the waist. The laughter doubled and split, a too-familiar _eheehee_ slicing across the warmer tones.

“Oh, fuck _off_ already,” he spat as he shoved himself upright, snapping his head around to find the source.

“Christ, Clint,” Tony said, amusement heavy in his tone. “Who gave you decaf this morning?”

“What?” Clint asked, turning to face Tony. He missed Tony’s response as he fell back a step.

Tony leaned against the door jam, hands deep in the pockets of his dove gray suit. Sunglasses hid his eyes, but a smile tugged at his mouth as Steve leaned down into his space, seeking a kiss. Clint watched their little moment without seeing it, hyper aware of the presence behind them.

Loki loomed a full head over Tony, a sharp contrast in his bloodied, alien armor.

Tony snapped his fingers, jerking Clint’s attention back onto him. “You alright? Looking a little under the weather over there.”

Clint’s eyes slid back to Loki without permission. He clenched his jaw shut, but couldn’t squash the strangled noise he made. One wicked, pointed black nail trailed down the side of Tony’s neck, lingering on the edge of his Adam’s apple before curling into the hollow of his collar. A thin red line marred Tony’s skin, deep enough for tiny crimson droplets to appear. Clint was going to be sick.

Tony turned, dislodging the claw from his skin as he peered over his own shoulder. “What’re you looking at, actually?” He straightened, asking Steve a question with a tilt of his head. When Steve shrugged, Tony said, “J, you see something I don’t?”

The naked concern in Tony’s words knocked Clint off balance. He needed to remember that Loki lived in his head, no matter how real the blood looked as it rolled down Tony’s throat. They couldn’t see what wasn’t there.

“No, Sir. Only yourself, the Captain and Agent Barton.”

Steve spoke up, but Clint focused on the way Loki’s hands molded to the curve of Tony’s shoulders. White, spidery hands crawled down Tony’s arms. The fingers curved, the tips of inhuman nails catching in the fabric as Loki dragged them back up. Clint felt it echo along his own arms, his stomach knotting itself up with each slow drag.

Clint gave a weird, full body spasm as he moved to yank Tony free, only to abort the movement. There wasn’t anything to save him from, not really. Even if Clint wasn’t sure he believed it anymore.

“This one proved quite fascinating,” Loki crooned, canting his head to lick at Tony’s ear. He shifted, bending down to envelope Tony in his own body, long arms scraping over Tony’s shoulders. Mouth curved into a sly smile, Loki watched Clint from underneath his eyelashes. Like Clint was prey.

“Clint?” 

“What, no, I’m good,” Clint responded, automatically. He didn’t know whom he answered. 

Loki sighed, nuzzling in against Tony’s cheek. “So much fire. So much intelligence and ambition in such a... uniquely damaged package. Perhaps I should have kept him, instead of you, Barton.”

Something inside him splintered. If Loki had taken Tony, things might have been different. Worse, all things considered. But not Clint’s fault. Not on _his_ hands. All the blood would stain Tony instead, and Clint hated himself for the thought.

“We could have done wonderful things together, the Man of Iron and I.” Loki pulled back until he stood tall, broad hands pressing Tony’s body back against his chest. Tony’s eyes were wide, and blank. Blue.

Long fingers moved again, cupping Tony’s chin, tilting his face back for Loki’s examination. “He’ll complicate things, sadly. Much as I am loathe to, I suppose this is the most expedient option.” As he spoke, Loki flicked his wrist, releasing a slim silver blade into his palm. The knife plunged into Tony’s throat right under the hinge of his jaw, ripping outward in a spray of red. Hot drops splattered across Clint’s face.

Clint shouted, lurching forward too late. Tony’s body slumped to the floor, his ice blue eyes fixed on nothing. Clint stopped dead, only half aware of the high, whining noises spilling free as he clapped a hand over his own mouth. This was his fault. He could have stopped Loki. Why didn’t he stop Loki?

But Loki wasn’t done. He stepped over Tony’s corpse, careful to avoid the growing pool of crimson, as he pressed his skinny form along Steve’s solid frame . “This one, I think, is far too like my dear brother for my own comfort,” he murmured. Steve didn’t react to Loki’s hand burying itself in his hair. “A soldier should be useful, obedient. Loyal to his master, rather than his own foolish ideals.”

The knife reached out a second time as Steve’s head fell back, and Clint’s legs wouldn’t move. They were all going to die like this, under Loki’s spell, more pliant than they’d ever been in their lives. Loki would go through them one by one as Clint stood, frozen and useless, letting it happen. Again.

Something wrapped around his arms, tight enough to bruise. It rocked him back and forth hard enough to snap his chin down to his chest. The sudden movement left him groundless, dizzy. Clint shoved out, hands crashing into warm marble. He snarled something, too disoriented to pay attention to his mouth as the grip on his arms fell away.

Clint blinked, and Steve swam into focus, palms up and out, his face crumpled into confused lines. He stood tall, shoulders back, his eyes — his regular eyes, the same shade Clint saw every day — steady on Clint’s face.

His pulse thudded visibly in his throat, and Clint found himself counting the beats.

Tony shoved himself into Clint’s field of vision, hip-checking Steve out of the way. He stopped two steps away from Clint’s still out-stretched arms, rocking up onto his toes and back onto his heels. Clint zeroed in on his throat, relieved to see a long line of ruddy skin without so much as a scratch. At some point Tony had shoved his shades up into his hair, leaving his wide whiskey-brown eyes exposed.

Clint locked his knees before he could fall. It was harder to see the flutter of Tony’s carotid artery. He curled his fingers into his palms so he wouldn’t reach out; to reassure himself Tony’s heart still beat. He flicked his eyes back to Steve, and then turned away.

“You back with us?” Tony asked, voice pitched low and careful.

He sucked in a shaking lungful of air and held it while Tony spoke. They were _fine_. It’d been all in his head.

No matter how often he said it, it didn’t feel true.

“Clint?” Steve tried.

“I’m alright,” Clint rasped, wincing at the rawness of his voice. “Sorry. Didn’t, um. Didn't sleep much.” He caught them exchange a glance out of the corner of his eye. Clint wasn’t sure he cared.

“Sure,” Tony started, shifting to see Clint’s face. “Except for the part where you went _white as a sheet_ , started _screaming my name_ , and then spaced out for a minute." Want to explain that whole…” Tony gestured in Clint’s direction, a large, circular sweep of his arms. “Episode?”

There wasn’t any decent cover story he could spin for this particular shit show, not off the top of his head. Bullshitting was more Nat’s talent. Clint's specialty ended at shooting things.

Paleolithic flying sticks wouldn’t help him right now. Probably. He wanted them anyway.

“No.”

“No?” Steve repeated, incredulous.

Clint shrugged. He couldn’t explain something he didn’t understand. Plus, there wasn’t any way to say ‘so, I’m seeing and hearing things,’ without ending up in a SHIELD straight jacket. His body began to betray the effects of the adrenaline surge. He bit his cheek until he tasted copper to quell the tremors.

Tony gave an absent nod, a wry twist to his mouth as he held Steve in place with a hand on his chest. “Fair enough,” he said, sliding his hand up to cover Steve’s mouth, muffling his indignant noise. “Minor problem, though. You’re a walking disaster, Barton.”

Clint couldn't hide his flinch.

Steve shoved Tony’s hand away. “Tony,” he started, glancing between them.

“Shut up, Steve. You’re not fooling anyone, birdbrain. You’re not okay. You’re a fucking _mess_ — you were _very obviously  _ hallucinating two second ago. I _know_ that’s not the first time.”

“Tony —.”

“ _No_ , Steve!” Tony pressed his lips together and stepped away from Steve, closer to Clint. He sounded desperate, on the verge of begging as he said, “Fuck, Clint, I —-we  just want to help.”

Clint watched, feeling detached from the scene as Steve clapped a hand on Tony’s shoulder and eased him back. Tony buried a hand in his hair, sucking on his lower lip as his eyes darted around the room.

“Does this have anything to do with the Barnes-Romanova field trip? Because I can find them if you need me to.” Tony let his hands fall, stuffing them into his pockets as he tilted his head.

Clint shook his head. Tony deflated.

Disgruntled, Steve said, “You know he’s going to be to pissed if he figures out you’re snooping, right?”

Tony’s eyebrows shot up. “Davy Jones or our resident Terminator?” He shrugged, dragging his gaze away from Clint as he turned to face Steve better.

Clint took the peace offering for what it was, and closed his eyes, letting his head fall forward. He counted his breaths. One, two, three, out-two-three, in-two-three.

“Fury can kiss my ass, and Bucky probably already thinks you keep an eye on him. I am hurt, by the way, hurt and insulted that you think I’d get caught in the first place.” The banter sounded miles away from their usual exchanges, but it settled Clint regardless.

Steve grumbled something and Clint’s skin didn’t seem so small anymore. He cracked his eyes open, seeking his bow where he'd propped it against the wall. “Buck told me some before he left,” he cut in. “Don’t know why he’s letting Fury keep him in the kiddie pool, but hey, also not my call.” He aimed the last comment at Steve, pleased when Cap slumped on a sigh.

“And that’s our cue,” Tony said in his fake, over-bright publicity tone as he clapped his hands together. The cheerfulness didn't match the way he glared daggers at Steve. “I don’t know about the rest of you, but I’m starving. Kitchen?”

Clint rolled his shoulders, working some of the tension free as Steve caved and turned to lead the way. He followed behind, ignoring their tense, thinly veiled back and forth as he scooped up his bow. They headed toward the communal kitchen, but he split off with a shake of his head.

As he headed toward the elevator, he heard Steve’s sharp, loud voice say, “That’s not a call we can make, Shellhead. It just _isn’t_.” Tony responded, too far away for him to make out the words despite the way he raised his voice in return. The way his voice shook with rage came across pretty  easily, though.

Clint hunched in on himself as the doors whispered shut. It was only a matter of time before they handed him back over to SHIELD. At least Buck was in a good place, now. Plus, Natasha could keep Bucky safer than Clint ever did, so. It wasn’t like anyone needed him.

Sweat soaked and gross, Clint forced himself to shower. Even though Loki wasn’t visible, Clint’s skin crawled the entire time he scrubbed himself. His heart only slowed down once he’d stuffed himself into a clean pair of Bucky’s gray sweats and a faded purple tee. He shook his head like a dog rather than risk a towel obscuring his sight, since his ears were useless until he put the aids back in.

Once he was clean, dressed and armed, Clint found himself standing alone in his living room, back to the wall. His fingers twitched until he wrapped them around his bow. For the first time in months, Clint found he couldn't stay in his apartment, and Bucky wasn’t available.

Steve and Tony weren’t viable options: he wanted to cut their exposure to his crazy. They’d already had front row seats. Natasha was with Bucky; Thor had followed Jane back to the desert. He sighed, knocking his head against the wall.

“Bruce it is,” he said as he propelled himself forward.

 

* * *

The soft jazz Bruce liked to play set Clint’s teeth on edge, but Clint needed the company without the pressure of conversation. Bruce only shot him occasional glances, and kept his murmuring to the slides he examined.

Stationed in an empty corner, Clint did his best to melt into the wall. Eyes closed, he tuned out Bruce's music and the gentle shuffling of papers. Deep, slow breaths settled his body into near-sleep. Clint lost track of time as he drifted, until the sudden blaring of saxophones pulled him back to the lab.

Ghost fingers seemed to tickle up the insides of his arms. They made a cold necklace around his throat, loose but heavy against his trachea. Clint rubbed at his neck, fidgeting as he swallowed again and again, unable to banish the sensation.

Bruce looked up with a frown, pushing his glasses back up his nose. “You okay over there? Anything I can help with?”

Caught off guard, Clint jumped. “No,” he responded, clambering to his feet. “I’ll get outta your hair.”

“Hey,” Bruce called after him, “you know — I mean, if you need to talk, or, uh, anything? Any one of us would…”

“Yeah, I got it,” Clint said, sliding into Bruce’s hesitation. He ignored how Bruce watched him with a frown as he fled through the heavy laboratory door.

He wound up in the empty archery range, instead. The smooth pull and release motions kept his head clear and his body moving. Each time an arrow found its mark pulled Clint back inside his skin a little more. If he could have, he might have stayed there until his hands bled, but Jarvis refused to reset the targets.

“My apologies, but a time limit has instituted for the training rooms, Agent Barton.”

Irritated, Clint sulked around the common floor. He ate Tony’s leftover Thai and moved all the furniture several inches to the left in revenge. Bruce and Tony wouldn’t notice, but it’d annoy the hell out of Steve. He didn’t know which of them had Jarvis on babysitting duty, but he figured they both deserved it.

He sprawled along the couch like a cat, soaking up the sun. One arm flopped to the floor so he could curl his fingertips around his bow. Giant, fluffy clouds floated past the huge wall of windows.

He missed Bucky. The amount of comfort he took from knowing Bucky was in the tower  probably qualified as unhealthy. Having him gone for an undetermined amount of time left Clint unmoored and alone.

Clint found himself remembering the first time he’d laid eyes on the former Winter Soldier, in the flesh. It'd been two months post-invasion. Steve finally tracked him down and hauled him back to the tower in the middle of a weeklong rainstorm. That night, Clint wandered into the communal floor, in search of ice cream. He’d long since given up on sleep. 

Steve, Tony and Bruce were deep in a heated discussion, hands flying as their voices rose and fell. Buck stood nearby, drenched and bedraggled, trying to blend into the wall. Eyes the color of steel had met his own, Bucky’s face both broken and empty and too close to the feeling in Clint’s chest. Clint had wanted to run that night, to turn on his heel and scuttle away from the familiar chaos in a stranger’s gaze.

Clint hadn’t known what point he was trying to prove when he’d marched into the kitchen. He still wasn't sure how he’d ended up dropping an oversized mug of hot chocolate near the Soldier. Bucky's confusing eyes had followed him as he fled, clutching his own mug of stolen watermelon sherbet.

Avoiding Bucky had been simple, in the first few weeks. He holed up on Steve’s floor, rarely left Steve’s side. Or so Clint had thought.

One night, Bucky wandered into the archery range. Clint made an ass out of himself, his legs losing their grip on the rope he hung from. The arrows still found their mark, even as Clint ended up sprawled on the floor, nursing a hell of a bruised skull.

Bucky rasped out a hoarse laugh, and looked so surprised at the sound that the last dregs of Clint’s reluctance fizzled and died.

Somehow, that laugh led to Clint offering to compare skills. They'd spent the night showing off, teaching each other little tricks with knives. Seeing the infamous ghost-assassin fumble an arrow still made Clint smirk.

He’d heard Bucky laugh for real, a sweet, raucous burst of noise. But after that, Bucky sought Clint out often, finding all his hideaways. And Clint found himself on a mission to discover how Bucky looked when he smiled.

Even back then, Bucky had been comfortable and easy in a way Clint wasn’t anymore. He made sense, and he was safe - Clint couldn’t damage him more than he was.

Not like he could now, with Buck shaking off the last dredges of his own hell while Clint fell deeper into the pit. Clint slung an arm over his face and counted his breathing until he fell asleep.

 

* * *

 

“Wake up, sleeping beauty. Clint. Clint, wake up.”

Clint jack-knifed awake, a garbled shout falling from his mouth as he fell from the couch to the floor.

“Shit, sorry,” Tony said. “You were whining in your sleep.” He hovered out of reach behind the loveseat, his hands splayed out before him. Tony’s eyes were wide as they stared at each other.

Slowly , he lowered his hands and relaxed his stance. “Nightmares? Or something…” He made a face and fluttered one hand aimlessly. “Else?”

Clint blinked at him for a moment, before he dropped his head back onto the ground with a groan. He shut his eyes at the gross feeling in his ears, too tired to screw his face up like he normally would. Sleeping with his aids in was ridiculous, but he’d manage to do it again anyway.

“Else?”

 “ _Yes_ ,” Tony snapped, suddenly impatient. “You’re a terrible liar, Barton. It’s pretty clear something is going on.”

Tony kept talking, but Clint couldn’t focus, didn’t want to focus, and tuned him out. The wobbly, disjointed mess in his stomach reminded him of the summer his Dad had broken his arm in two places. The old man had to bring him to the hospital. The nurse had given Clint too much medication, and left him convinced he was going to float away. He’d tied one end of his sheet to his ankle, and the other to the bed rail when the Doc pulled his Dad out of the room. Clint didn’t like it anymore now than he had then.

He swallowed, easing himself upright as best he could with one hand still clenched around his bow. He hadn't even realized he held it.

“You’re not even listening to me right now, are you?” Tony asked, tired and exasperated from his perch on the loveseat.

“Not really. I’m good.”

“Yeah,” Tony responded, sharp and sarcastic. “And I’m the fucking Easter Bunny. Why won’t you just-?” He paused and licked his lips, eyes darting around the room as he worked through something. “Did I do something, to make you distrust me? Us?”

Movement from the corner caught his attention. Phil stepped out, a file held against his chest.

“It’s past time to debrief, Agent. Before this spirals into an incident, please. I’d rather not have to file more paperwork than necessary.”

“Not today, Satan,” Clint said, his tongue thick in his head.

“ _Excuse_ me?”

Clint jerked, banging his elbow on the nearby table leg as he swung around to face Tony. He’d completely forgotten about him.

“That wasn’t directed at me. Was it?” Tony crossed his arms over his chest, his flat voice making it more of a statement than a question.

When Clint’s mouth opened and closed  wordlessly , Tony shifted, tilting his head back and working his jaw . “Who the hell were you talking to, just now?”

Silence seemed the best option. Probably the only option Clint had, even if it made Tony’s face turn purple as he ground his teeth together. Tony’s patience snapped; he flung his arms out wide as he launched to his feet. “Jesus fuck , Barton!” He stabbed at Clint with a finger. “Why the bullshit? You’re not even trying to lie anymore, which, hey, nice change and all, but we know something’s going on. Did you forget _ literally _ _everyone_ in this tower is also fucked up? You’re not alone in whatever this is.”

Clint didn’t respond and Tony threw his hands up. “For the love of all things holy, just freaking say it!”

“Can’t.” Clint snapped his jaw shut before anything else could crawl out his throat.

Tony stilled, his body crumpling in on itself in defeat. “No,” he said, sounding tired. “You won’t. That’s a whole different thing.” He rubbed at his goatee. “I can’t do this right now. Executive decision: Jarvis, send Steve up, please.”

“Certainly, Sir.”

Tony helped Clint to climb back onto the couch, pressing him into the corner. “I will be back in five minutes. You will sit your ass right here and not move.” He didn’t wait for Clint to reply before disappearing.

When he came back, he pressed a thick hoodie on Clint. Tony loomed over him until he’d struggled into the oversized sweatshirt. Then, he chucked a fluffy, dark purple blanket in his face. Soon after, he deposited a steaming bowl of Nat’s leftover chili on the low table before Clint. Another vanishing act led to several bowls of popcorn and glasses of water appearing on the table.

Clint eyed the chili, bemused.

Steve appeared, nodding to Clint as he wedged himself into the corner opposite. He snagged a bowl of popcorn and relaxed back into the couch cushions, watching Tony do the same in the loveseat.

Slowly, Clint leaned forward and collected his food.

“Welcome to Emotions, Stark-Rogers Style,” Tony said as the lights dimmed. Steve snorted past his mouthful of popcorn, earning a glare from Tony.

Clint blinked, his spoon wedged in his mouth.

“We’re going to watch some stupid, sappy crap and feel things like real men and then pretend this never happened,” Tony continued. “Nothing leaves these couches. So. J, start it up.”

Clint ate mechanically , watching as women in long dresses meandered across the screen. The fancy dialogue required him to pay attention, so it wasn’t long before he found himself slipping his aids into his pocket. Instead, he focused on the actresses' expressions, creating his own story.

Popcorn and water disappeared as fast as the chili, while Clint watched one woman’s mouth twist. Another woman’s eyelashes trembled, and Clint tried to mimic the movement. From the way Steve eyeballed him, Clint looked more like he was suffering from a seizure.

He watched Keira Knightley's face flush as she gestured wildly at a tall, dark haired man. Clint found himself drowning in the guy’s movements. The man was all tiny twists of fingertip, and subtle thin lips. He angled his body, as though preparing for a blow that never came, and Clint couldn't look away.

The man’s eyes almost bled with whatever it was he couldn’t get his mouth to say. So much seemed to happen in his face between one blink and the next, eerily similar to Bucky's expressions. Clint curled in on himself, yanking his hood up to cover his own face.

Steve left the moment the credits rolled, his skin flushed pink. Tony dropped down in his spot, stretching out his legs until they pressed against Clint’s thigh. Clint slid his aids back in when Tony tugged at his earlobe.

“Emotions are horrible things,” Tony mused, hands laced over his stomach as he stared up at the ceiling. “Every single member of this team is seriously screwed in the head, and we know it. But everything has a breaking point. Sometimes the best you can do is control when and where. Tensile strength. Basic concept.”

He jerked a thumb in the general direction of the credits. “Cap’n I try to do this at least once a week. You’re welcome to join in, bleed off some pressure.”

Tony pushed himself up and off the couch, clapping a hand to Clint’s shoulder. “Like Cap keeps preaching: We’re a team, Katniss. Means a lot of things, but mostly that we’re stronger as a unit. Got to have each other’s backs, for the days that remembering we’re trying to help people isn’t enough.” He squeezed Clint’s shoulder tossing out a dry, “Don’t tell Steve I’m recycling his speeches, he’ll get pouty,” as he walked away.

Clint swallowed against the burning in his throat, feeling wrong footed but not sure why. If he spent the night curled up in the bathtub with Bucky’s pillow, then the only one who could tell was Jarvis.

And Loki.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Phil has some things to say, Loki throws a tantrum and Clint finally 'fesses up.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Since this feels like such a short chapter and ch.4 was kind of a filler to introduce the rest of the characters, I'm going to try and get ch.6 (Bucky!) edited and ready to go earlier than Friday. No promises, since my day job literally never ends. Because my day job is homeschool mom. And I'm outnumbered. Send help.

Tubs were not meant to be slept in, a fact Clint knew and ignored and would spend the day paying for. Everything ached. Goosebumps littered his skin. His body decided to make its unhappiness clear with a round of cracks and pops as he struggled through his morning routine. He opted to leave his aids in their container. He didn’t need his ears when he was only talking to himself.

“Coffee,” he mumbled, rubbing at his eyes with the heel of one hand as he shuffled into the kitchen. Hitching his sweats back up on his hips took more coordination than it should, since his other hand also held his bow. He tripped over the sagging hem and sprawled along the cool tile. “Aw,” he groaned, pressing his face harder against the floor. “Pants.”

A hand slid along his arm as he pushed himself upright. Clint looked up with a lopsided smile. “Buck? You’re home— ,” Clint swallowed the rest of his sentence. “I should go back in the tub. Fuck today.”

Phil knelt down beside him, concern etching a wrinkle between his eyebrows. “Have you tried resting in an actual bed since Barnes left? I hear it works wonders.”

Clint slid away, pulling his bow close against his chest, until he sat against the wall.  Eyes closed, he settled his hands in their proper places along the weapon. He breathed, in-two-three, out-two-three, settling into the calm place he went when he placed arrow to string.

Phil remained when he opened his eyes, placid as ever.

“I’m gonna ignore it,” Clint said aloud as he stood. “I’m gonna ignore it, and it’s gonna go away, because I am so done with this. I haven’t even had _coffee_ yet.” He might be whining, but he figured he deserved it.

Phil sighed, levering himself upright with a hand on his knee. “I’m trying to do my job, Hawkeye. As usual, you make it difficult.”

Clint shuffled around him, head down. It wasn’t fair that Phil’s Not-Ghost could say things like that. It sounded exactly like Phil, exasperation and affection all wrapped up in his little huff. Clint had to stop and swallow, toes curling against the tile as he fought the urge to spin and see if this Phil wore the right smirk.

But it didn’t matter. Phil’s body lay in a box somewhere, and Clint stopped being Hawkeye the second Loki claimed him. To cement the point, he lay the bow down across the sink before turning towards the bag of coffee grounds. Holding it suddenly seemed wrong.

“You don’t need to say it aloud for me to hear it, any more than you need your aids to hear me, Barton.” Phil sighed, raising his eyes to the ceiling as he moved to stand beside Clint. “I am sorry you feel that way, however wrong it is.”

Shoulders up by his ears, Clint set the coffee to brew. Having someone else in his head — even a man that only existed _inside_ his head— Clint shuddered. He started singing the first song that popped into his thoughts, which for reasons unknown turned out to be “Baby Got Back.”

“Cute,” Phil said. “If you had let me speak to you yesterday, I wouldn’t need to do this, but I’m pressed for time. Barton, you need to inform the rest of your team of this... problem. They can help.”

Ugly, wheezing laughter bubbled from Clint’s throat before he could stop it.

Phil’s frustration became a palpable thing between them. “You are a member of this team,” he said, making a point to enunciate his words. “They value you as an individual, a friend and a teammate. You are Clint Barton, Hawkeye, Avenger. You are _better_ than this. You need to fight back.”

Eyebrows raised, Clint took a swig straight from the coffee pot. Thankfully, it wasn’t scalding, even thought it was too hot to drink comfortably.

He should have known Phil wouldn't leave it alone. No, Phil played dirty when he had to.

“Barnes needs you to fight back. He needs you to take care of yourself. Like I did.”

Clint shoved the carafe back into its stand too hard. It listed to the side, skittering back down to the counter. He turned, incredulous and infuriated. Hurt. “You didn’t need _shit_ from me, _Agent_ . You didn’t _want_ any damn thing from me.”

Phil spread his hands out, beseeching. “I did,” he responded, soft and sad. “There’s enough memories of me in your head to show me that I did. If I had given in to that desire, I could have gotten you killed. I couldn’t take that risk.” He stepped closer, intent on Clint’s face. “But James Barnes isn’t like me. He can take care of you, just like you do for him. If you gave him a chance, this would be an equal partnership.”

“Shut up,” Clint growled, hands pressed to his ears. Tears burned his eyes, and he bent double. “Shut up!”

“I needed you to be okay more than I needed you in my bed. Barnes needs you to be yourself, so he can be both in your bed and your backup. Barnes needs you to open your damn mouth, Hawkeye.”

Rage boiled under his skin. He stepped forward, shoving out blindly past the tears. His hands met empty air, though Phil’s quiet sigh seemed to echo in his head. “You shut up,” Clint hissed, hands trembling as he pressed the heels of his hands hard against his eyes. “You don’t get to say crap like that to me.”

“Oh, are we having a lover’s spat? Should I have brought refreshments?”

Loki’s cold, delighted tone sliced across Clint’s wet gasps. Heart pounding, Clint yanked his hands away from his face. The Aesir stood across the room, his head tilted, mouth open around a cruel smile. He lifted his skeletal hands, spreading his fingers as he said, “No need to stop on my account. Do carry on.”

“You are not welcome here, Loki.” Phil replied, unfazed.

“And yet I was invited.” Long fingers fluttered. “Funny thing, that.”

Clint couldn’t seem to catch his breath.

“He isn’t yours.”

Loki’s smile grew sharp, full of teeth as his eyes blazed a bright, crystalline aqua. “I beg to differ,” he drawled. “The little bird has been mine for ages.” He canted his head in the opposite direction, letting his hands drop as he angled his body towards Clint.

Clint swallowed, eyes flashing between them. “This isn’t real,” he reminded himself, ragged and broken. “I’m fucking crazy, ‘sall.” He flexed his hands, letting his nails dig into his thighs.

“A bit, yes.” Loki murmured. He moved across the white tile squares, his steps languid and predatory. “Otherwise I suppose you wouldn't be my very own ambrosia.” A pink, pointed tongue ran along his open mouth. “You are, indeed, a meal fit for a god, little mortal.”

“I’m sorry,” Phil cut in, his voice tight with fury. “Clearly you misunderstood. Allow me to reiterate: Clint Barton is _mine_.”

Loki turned, his face twisted into the same mix of rage and madness he had worn when Clint lived in a quiet, frozen world. 

Clint lunged for his bow, cursing the lack of arrows. Someone roared. His fingers grazed the bow’s tip. A body slammed into him from behind, shoving his hips hard against the edge of the sink. The bow clattered to the floor as Clint scrambled to brace his hands along the counter.

Twin balls of ice punched into his back, right under the wings of his shoulders. The pressure forced him down, knocking the side of his head into the faucet. He gasped for air as the ice sank inside him, spreading frozen fingers into his lungs, along his ribs and down his spine.

“Unfortunately for you, little bird, I might be a more real than you believe.” The fists inside his ribcage tightened, yanking him upright. It hurt, his bones creaking and groaning with each new breath. The frost crawled up his throat, numbing his tongue even as his chest burned. One frigid hand pulled back,  long enough for Clint to suck in air and curl his fingers into fists. From the corner of his eye, Clint saw Phil staggering away, clutching at his chest. Before Clint could react, Loki thrust back inside him, stealing what remained of his strength.

Loki shoved Clint’s body sideways, further down the counter. His legs gave out, arms limp and heavy along the slick granite surface underneath him. One limb caught the coffee pot, and it crashed to the floor, shattering on impact.

The hands pressed deeper inside him, trailing frozen crystals along Clint’s spinal cord, over his heart. Loki laughed as spots began to eat away at Clint’s sight.

All at once, the icy pressure vanished. Clint slumped along the counter, coughing between ragged gasps. He let himself fall, ignoring the way the glass shards cut into him as he sought out his bow. He kept his attention on the apparitions, one hand seeking along the floor as he inched his way back.

Phil’s hands gripped Loki’s shoulders, forcing him back and away. Loki spun free, laughing like mad. His hands still burned a bright glacial blue. He offered Phil a mocking bow.

“My turn,” Phil said when Loki straightened. He plunged both hands into Loki’s upper abdomen.

Phil cried out, but wrenched himself closer. Loki screamed. Clint’s vision exploded into sparkles, flashes of blue, green and white against a hungry black background. When his eyes cleared, they had vanished. The bow lay at his fingertips, and blood seeped from cuts along his feet and arms.

“What the actual fuck,” he breathed.

* * *

 

  
Walking sucked. He'd needed to pry out three huge chunks of glass from his left foot. The grainy feeling meant he might have missed some tiny pieces. Later, he’d cave and get Bruce to clean the cuts properly, but right then he couldn’t find the energy to care. Instead, he’d slathered some ointment on and wrapped his foot until it looked like it’d been mummified. Cleaning the floor had been interesting. At least most of the blood had been on him, instead of the grout.

He hobbled on, continuing his quest for coffee, this time in the communal kitchen.

Voices drifted down the corridor and Clint froze. He sagged against the wall for a beat when he recognized Steve and Tony’s cadences.

“ — not what I meant and you know it.” Tony sighed. He sounded exhausted.

“No, I don’t.”   
  
Clint stopped dead, alarm perking him up again. That was Steve’s fighting voice, low, tight and near shaking.

“Steve—, ”  
  
“No, Tony. Do you even realize what you’re asking me to do? You’re asking me to take that choice away. You’re asking me to—,”   
  
Tony cut through Steve’s hard tone, ruthless. “That is not what I fucking said, stop twisting everything around and _listen to me._ Sitting here like this, look, we tried that, we let it go, and it isn't working, Steve. It’s getting worse. You heard Jarvis!”

Clint swallowed, fingers flexing where they rested on the wall and around the grip of his bow. He lost track of the conversation for a moment, the voices distant under his panic. Something must have happened with Bucky. Steve only got worked up like that over someone important. Had Bucky relapsed? He found himself praying to a god he didn’t believe in that Bucky was alright.

“Bullshit, Steve. Bull. Shit.” Tony’s voice cracked.   
  
A chair scraped back, slow and steady. Clint could see it in his head: Steve pulling himself to his full height, looming over Tony.

Sure enough, two thuds followed, Steve leaning over on his fists now, his face probably too close to Tony’s. It had to be really bad, for Steve to be trying to use his size against Tony.

Buck claimed that Steve had pulled the same stunt when he was tiny. He’d made a face and said sometimes Steve forgot how big he was now, that he wasn’t actively trying to use his size against people. Times like this, Clint had to wonder.

“It ain’t right,” Steve rumbled, the old New York accent thick in his voice. “He’s had too many choices taken already. And that’s the end of it.” Steve stomped off, thankfully going in the opposite direction.

Another scrape of a chair along the floor. “Fine,” Tony hollered after him. “When it blows up in our faces it's on your shoulders!” Clint heard him curse, and something clattered to the ground.

Clint’s over enthusiastic foot wrapping worked against him. Tony’s quick footsteps caught up to him before he could hobble more than a few feet. When Clint glanced up, sheepish, Tony was tight-lipped and running a hand down his goatee.

“Thanks for the heads-up, Jarvis.”

“Anytime, Sir.”

Tony sneered off into space before refocusing on Clint. “The hell did you do to yourself this time?” Tony gestured to Clint’s stained sweats and the endless bandage wound around his foot. He stepped closer, wrapping a hand around Clint’s wrist - the one not holding his bow - and tugged him to a seat in the kitchen.

Clint sat with a groan, dropping his head to the table once he laid out the bow and arrow. “Dropped the coffee pot.” He made an exploding noise, miming the spray with one hand.

Tony gave a horrified squeak, and Clint huffed a laugh. Something warm bumped into his hand, and he raised his head. Tony prodded the coffee cup with a fingertip, until Clint wrapped his hands around it and pulled it closer. He breathed it in before he chugged half the cup. Tony sat down opposite him, another mug settled between his hands.

A companionable silence fell between them, each lost to their own worlds as they drank. Tony got up to refill their cups and sat back down, pressing his mouth into a thin line.

Odds were high Clint didn’t want to know what Tony was debating saying. He blurted out his own question, instead. “What were you arguing about?”

Tony’s eyebrows shot up, his eyes locked on Clint’s face. The half suspended mug drifted back to the tabletop.

“You’re not - Bucky’s okay, right? I mean, he didn’t, uh, have an episode or anything? ‘Cause he’s been doing really good.”

“Bucky?” Tony murmured, confusion evident in the way he squinted across the table.

“Yeah,” Clint said, shifting in his seat as he fiddled with his cup. “Sounded like Steve’s pissed off.” He shrugged. “Usually means Buck.”

Tony frowned, looking away as his own fingers tightened around his mug. “Bucky’s fine.”

“So what’s up then?”

Rather than respond, Tony  dropped his head back on a sigh and shrugged.

Clint shrugged. “C’mon man, don’t give me that crap. You guys do really well together when you’re not being idiots. And usually you’re idiots over things you should compromise on.” He gestured vaguely with his mug. “Between Buck and Nat I’ve got all the stubborn I can handle.”

Tony blinked. “Huh. Kinda got a point there.” He waved aside Clint’s ‘and’ gesture. “Difference of opinion. Same day, different B.S. He’ll come around eventually. He’s still in his righteous setting. Give him some time to stew and then we’ll try again.”

“It’s Steve. The Ents might march on Mordor first.”

Tony flipped him off. He started humming, staring off into space.

The humming raised goosebumps along Clint's arms. It changed, becoming a weird, discordant sound, hammering behind Clint’s temples. He rubbed at his head, squeezing his eyes closed.

“Could you stop?”

“What?” Clint glanced up at Tony, who held his cup in front of his mouth. “I’m not doing anything?”

The humming continued as he spoke. Clint’s spine prickled, and he scanned the room with rapid movements.

“Clint?”

Loki wandered into view behind Tony, trailing one hand along the cupboards as he went. Clint tracked his progress as he sat straighter in his chair, one hand sliding along the table to pull his weapon closer. 

Tony’s mug made a sharp, loud noise as it struck the tabletop. “Okay. Who’s behind me this time.”

Clint jerked his eyes to Tony.

“Don’t bullshit me. Who are you seeing right now.”

“Not a good idea.” Clint hunched in on himself, helplessly sliding his gaze back to Loki’s investigation of the silverware drawer.

“And why is that?”

Clint made a strangled noise, throwing his hands up. “I know you read Harry Potter, dude. Figure it out.”

“Pretty sure saying Voldemort’s name didn’t make him more powerful. Pretty sure not saying it won half the battle for him.”

The humming grew louder, until Clint felt it in his bones. He grimaced against the vibrations in his teeth.

A body settled into the seat beside him. Phil’s short fingers squeezed his own. “I’ll do what I can,” Phil murmured, meeting Loki’s glare impassively. “You need to do something about this. He’s been here too long already.” Phil turned to Clint, face solemn and intent. “Tell him. Let them help. I’m not suffering under the delusion of being strong enough to keep this up much longer.”

Tony waved a hand in his face. Clint grabbed it, yanking Tony up from the table and hustling him away as Phil approached Loki. He tuned out Tony’s indignant squawks.

The humming finally died as Phil settled his arms around Loki’s shoulders. He seemed to glow.

“I grow tired of this, little man,” Loki remarked, letting Phil step in close.

Phil shrugged, the glow flaring to a sharp white before cutting out. Loki faded, and Phil turned back to where Clint stood before Tony, bow at the ready.

“Stop playing stupid, Hawkeye. It’s never been a good look on you.” Phil nodded toward Tony. “It’s time to let them protect you, before Loki stops playing games.” In the time it took Clint to glance at Tony and back, Phil was gone.

“Okay, I’m done,” Tony said into the silence. “You need to tell me what the _hell_ is going on. Like _right now._ ”

Clint slumped, letting Tony out of the corner. He followed Tony back to the table, placing the bow and arrow in front of himself as a touchstone. The furious, intense stare Tony leveled him with seemed to settle over his skin like a brand.

Tony leaned forward. “You going to clue me in any time soon?” When Clint didn’t answer right away, Tony swore and dug a hand through his hair. “So help me, I will bring Bucky into this. I will throw you on Fury’s doorstep. I will get Natasha back just for this. Let me _help_ , you—,” Tony cut himself off with an audible clack of his teeth.

Finger tracing the edges of his arrow head, Clint said, “What if he’s not just in my head, though?” The meek, uncertain lilt to his words made Clint fold in on himself. “What if I say it, and then he can go after the rest of you?”

There was a pause, and then Tony wrapped his hand around Clint’s wrist. He squeezed, waiting until Clint looked up. “You’re one of us, even if you don’t think you are, right now.” His eyes darted back and forth between Clint’s. “Which means whatever's going on, we’ll deal with it. All of us, together. Which we have been saying for _months,_ by the way.”

Clint sank his teeth into his lip. “You were arguing about me. Earlier.”

Tony pulled back, waffling a hand through the air. “We’re worried. And you’re stalling.”

Another pause. Clint watched Tony watch him, letting his declaration roll around in his head. Maybe it was time he tried to get out of his own way, for once. “Loki,” he ground out. “It’s Loki.”

Laughter broke the stillness of the kitchen, high pitched and manic. Clint’s eyes went wide and he grabbed at Tony, cursing wildly.

Loki bloomed into being, in full regalia: great horns, cape and staff. Sapphire light blazed from the staff, piercing deep into Clint's skull. He slapped a hand to his face with a shout, the humming buzzing along his skin, insistent and overwhelming. The pounding in his head flared, once, twice and he fell into the roiling ocean of blue.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Buck's playing guinea pig. He'll take getting shot over this, thanks.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lesson learned: don't try to promise things early, because it's going to come back and bite me. Sorry?! But 'editing' this turned into 'oh god oh god it grew another 4k what did i dO' so hopefully you forgive me?

They weren’t supposed to be out, weren’t cleared to lift a damn teaspoon without supervision — which meant they’d hightailed it out soon as Hill and company looked away. It was their own fault, Bucky figured. They should’ve known better than to trust him and Barton to toe the line.

‘Course, the logical follow up to that thought meant it might also be partly Bucky’s fault Clint hadn’t stayed put for five goddamn seconds like Buck said, and launched his dumb ass out a window for funsies instead.

“What,” Clint squawked. “Screw you, I had to take the shot! It’s not like falling out the window was my end-game!”

Ignoring his babbling, Buck took a second to look him over. The right bicep bore a bullet graze and the glass had left tears along his opposite flank and leg. Clint’s hands pressed against a wide slice below his knee, where red seeped between his fingers. Deep purple bruises already marred parts of his face, arms and knuckles.

“I saved flyboy’s ass, bro. I want that on freakin’ record.”

“Noted,” Bucky responded as he dropped to his knees on the street and ran deft hands over Clint’s limbs. He didn’t find anything new, and took a moment to shake the glinting shards from Clint’s hair. “Cap’s gonna murder you,” he added.

Either in response to his words or the prodding, Clint gave a strangled, whining noise. Bucky slanted a smirk his way. “Not s’posed to be here, remember?”

“You’re here!”

“Eh,” Bucky shrugged, allowing himself another once over before he tried to make him stand. “Figure I can make a break for it when he gets a priest to give you your last rites. I didn’t get hurt, he won’t come after me ‘til he’s done tearin’ you a new one.” Clint’s leg crumpled. Bucky caught him around the waist and eased him back down.

“I liked you better when you were quiet.” Clint broke off, making a strangled noise as Bucky jarred his leg. “No, I didn’t, that’s a lie, but wow, you’re a dick. Also, I am a lady, Barnes, eyes up here, show some respect.”

Buck let his eyebrows climb steadily up to his hair. “Sure thing, dollface.” In one strong, smooth movement, Bucky scooped Clint up bridal-style and rose to his feet. Wasn’t like the idiot could walk, anyway.

He crushed Clint to his chest when the idiot squealed and started to wiggle. “The hell are you doing, Barnes!”

“Respectin’ your delicate, pretty self right on over to medical. Don’t you know this ain’t no place for a dame? Might turn an ankle. Or get shot at. Or fall out a window. Again.”

Clint stilled, his jaw sagging open as his face flushed, one hand still clenched in the collar of Bucky’s shirt. Then, he dissolved into giggles, burying his face in Bucky’s shoulder and clutching at Bucky’s arm. Buck didn’t bother hiding the wide, cocky grin spreading across his face.

But when Bucky tried to set him down at the temporary medical tent, Clint’s grip tightened. “If I gotta get checked out, even though I’m fine —”

“You forget the whole fell out a window thing? And the bleeding?”

“Again with the window? You have to let that go, bro, that was like, forever ago. Point is, if I gotta deal with the creepy medical team, so do you.”

* * *

 

A sharp, pleased “Ah!” knocked Buck back out of his own head and into the horror of reality: captured, blindfolded and bound flat. He was a lab rat, as helpless as the paper dolls his littlest sister used to shred.

The needle felt impossibly huge, thick and long as it bug into his aching hip for a third time. The voice continued, soft, male and distracted, “This sample should be much more usable.”

Whoever Bucky’s tormentor was, he hadn’t once addressed any of his comments directly to Bucky. Instead, he mumbled fragments of thoughts to himself, his voice easily drowned by the clink of glass or the scratch of graphite along paper. Bucky didn’t know if he should be grateful to the obvious dismissal, or if the lack of humanity ascribed to his body only worsened the need to scream and claw his own skin off.

Especially since this wasn’t anywhere near close to the first time he’d been in this situation. After all, Hydra had their mitts on him for a long, long time before they’d learned to blank him. They’d ‘trained’ him, broke him down piece by piece, wiped him clean in fits and starts. Bucky learned to tuck part of himself away inside the deepest corner of his mind, learned to exist without being aware, learned to protect himself while they learned to unmake him with the press of a button.

The silence might be a kindness.

But it meant that even as he curled himself around memories of Clint, Bucky kept track of the voice. Bucky would be able to pinpoint the man’s slight Southern drawl easily. Some of the words seemed European — he’d been overseas enough to pick up some turns of phrase, but not an accent. The casual jargon, steady hands and immunity to blood indicated medical training.

Bucky kept track of the injuries sustained, in a clinical, detached way. Injuries meant a decrease in his ability to function, to defend himself. Not that he could do much, as he was. But even healing diverted his body's resources, impacting his reflexes and strength.

Swift slashes closed almost before they could bleed, the blade sharp and precise. Deeper lacerations followed, still centered on his outstretched limbs. Once those knitted together, the Doc had repeated the cuts across Bucky’s naked chest and abdomen. Painful, but the clean, straight lines continued to fix themselves without much fuss.

Something scraped over several of the slashes. Tissue samples, Buck thought, to go with the vials of blood the guy already had.

The knife had turned to more delicate things, seeking out specific tendons and nerves until Bucky’s body couldn’t have moved no matter how he tried. Those took longer to heal, the cruel slice to his Achilles still tender. His human fingers kept twitching. An I.V. slid into his human elbow, while the man mumbled, “healing depletes a body.”

Turning his thoughts inward hadn’t helped stop the pain or his shouts, but memories and daydreams kept his mind occupied. He hoarded each moment he could dredge up, much like that drawing Steve had done as a kid: a smug, fat dragon, smoke curling from its nose as its claws cradled a pile of gems.

It was hard to ignore how often Clint ended up in his thoughts, like this. Harder still to reconcile how he’d started the day — yesterday? Today? He didn’t know — trying to figure out his own feelings.

In the end, they weren’t that hard to figure out. But that didn’t make it any more pleasant.

Clint was coming. He’d sworn, looked Buck dead in the eye and promised. Bucky needed to hold onto that. Clint was coming, and then everything would work out. They’d talk, soon as Buck’s skin stopped crawling with this strange man’s touch. Everything would be okay.

No matter how often he said it, the words always tasted like a lie.

Bucky couldn’t deny how much of his life revolved around Clint, but he also couldn’t deny how often Clint kept him at a distance. He’d promised, and he’d keep that promise, but would Clint come because he promised, or because it was Bucky?

Steve’s voice seemed to float through his head, as stark and to the point as ever. “You’re a fuckin’ idiot, Buck.” And, well. Bucky couldn’t disagree. Despite his own personal soap opera, the team would come for him. Nat got away, he was sure of it. She’d alert the rest and they’d find him, no matter where he was. He wasn’t alone, not this time.

One step at a time. Clint would come for him. Until then, Bucky’s only job was to keep his damn head together. Fight back as best he could. With luck, someone would get sloppy and he’d be able to make a break for it.

The man’s voice broke into Bucky’s depressing thoughts again. “Alright. Cellular response is remarkable. Let that sit a few while I…” He trailed off, his quiet, measured footsteps growing closer. The man took a deep breath and let it out. Something flicked on with a whoosh, and heat assaulted the right side of his body. Bucky couldn’t stop the alarmed noise or how he began to struggle against the bonds.

He was screaming before the fire began to blacken his skin.

* * *

Water pounded down from all angles, hot enough to scald. It left him trembling, flushed and weak as he scraped his metal fingers across his thin, sensitive flesh.

Soap couldn't get the stain off.

Nothing would. It would never come off. He could carve the ruined skin away from his bones and it would still be in his marrow. It covered him, turned him into a candied, poison apple, slick, ruby red and murderous.

His nails caught at the delicate skin of his inner wrist, tearing it. Blots of crimson mixed with the water to pool, pink and thin, in his palm. High pitched noises spilled from his throat as he flung his arm out, throwing the evidence free. He tumbled to his knees, air punching into his lungs in raw, gasping mouthfuls as he pressed his arm hard against his chest.

It was inside him. He’d never get it off. He’d never be clean again. Never be free. The infection went down to the very cells of his body - he couldn’t even bleed the sickness out.

Another body dropped down beside him, startling him into falling back and scuttling across the oversized shower.

“Just me,” Clint said, low and husky, face intent as his hands raised to show empty palms. He sat outside the spray, clad in only a pair of cotton boxers, which darkened from blue to black in the water.

Buck found himself staring at the fabric, his brain spinning out of control. _Just being near you sullied him_ , it said, _look what you’ve done now, you’ve contaminated him, it’s crawling inside him, oozing down his throat until he chokes to death, see how his skin grows red and irritated, all because of you—_

“Buck?”

Clint’s soft, cautious voice knocked him out of his head for one blissful moment, left him staring wild-eyed and terrified at the worry in Clint’s face.

“I need you to listen to me for a sec, okay?” Clint waited a beat, shoulders slumping when Bucky couldn’t make his mouth form a response. “I’m staying right here. Not getting any closer ‘til you say I can, but I’m not leaving you either.” Another pause and Clint licked his lips, flicking stray droplets from his flushed face. “Can you… like, nod or something? Let me know you get it?”

A bright, relieved smiled broke out across Clint’s face as Bucky gave a single, jerky dip of his head. Bucky had to turn away, crawl back under the fierce, hot waterfall and hide his face against his knees.

When Clint spoke again, his voice his voice came out broken and hoarse, full of a truth Bucky couldn't handle. “Listen…I get it, okay? But the blood, it’s not coming off in the shower.” The next inhale was loud and wobbly. “It’s, it’s not on you, y’know? It’s _in_ you and it’s awful and it hurts and you just — Don’t think I didn’t catch the scratch marks, alright, man? Hurting yourself doesn’t help any, doesn’t get it out. This isn’t the Middle Ages and you can’t flog yourself back to the beginning. There’s no reset, dude.”

Clint’s voice broke, and Bucky couldn't help but peek up at him through the wet hair hiding his face. He wished he hadn’t as soon as the twisted, shattered expression marring his features registered. Clint’s eyes fluttered close and he inhaled around the teeth in his bottom lip. When he opened them, he stuck his hand under the water, watching as it puddled and ran down his arm.

Bucky reached his own out in response, flinching at the way Clint’s mouth dropped open again. But he didn’t speak, only scooted himself under the water, pressing himself closer to Bucky’s side, careful to leave space between their bodies. He looked like a drowned rat. Bucky wanted to smile, but it seemed to get lost on its way to his mouth.

“You got to find a reason to get up in the morning,” Clint continued, huddling in on himself and canting his head towards Bucky, eyes narrowed against the streams trailing over his face. “Got to find a reason to climb back out. Hell, maybe you never find one, but you gotta keep looking, because otherwise they win. And they can’t win, Buck. They _can’t_.”

Time seemed to slow as Bucky stared, ignoring the way water dripped from his eyelashes. Clint finally looked at him, and Buck let himself fall for the first time he could remember. He tilted sideways, right into Clint’s chest as Clint’s arm’s swept around his back. He cried, and cried, and let the shower wash it away. Clint arms never wavered.

* * *

With his eyes still covered, he had only the minimal input from his other senses. Unfortunately, there wasn’t much. Only the occasional hum or drag of cloth against something hard seemed to break the silence. The air tasted stale, but that could mean anything from lack of a ventilation system, an underground room or that the door hadn’t been opened in a while. He was warm, even in only his boxer briefs, but his core temperature was always higher than average. Whatever he lay on was hard and smooth, with thick bands arcing over his body to keep him immobile. The inability to see was driving him insane.

There was no way to tell how many exits the room had. He didn’t know what else lay in the room, where the so-called doctor sat to write his ‘results’. No way to tell how many others might be in the room — or outside, peering in, dissecting him. The thought made his skin break out in bumps as phantom spiders skittered up his spine.

Exposed, vulnerable, alone, injured— Bile rose in his throat, nearly choking him on his own fears.

Bucky forced himself to relax, taking advantage of the lull to let his body fix itself up as best it could. Thankfully the latest burns were centered along his right thigh, instead of scattered along his body. If he’d had to endure the aching, hot, itchiness of healing all over, he might have lost his mind.

The steady beats of Natasha hid, Natasha got away, she’s coming, Clint’s coming, he promised, seemed to be all that kept his mind from getting stuck running in circles. They’d snatched him straight from a SHIELD op so stupid, it probably hadn’t been documented. Factor in how only a handful of people even know who he was, never mind what he was doing, or where… had to be a set up. Made him regret not keeping a closer eye on the faces poppin’ in on him and Nat.

Bucky forced his mind back to the memory of Natasha’s breathing, echoing through his communication unit as he’d collapsed. “I’ll find you,” had been the last thing he remembered hearing.

It didn’t matter who had him. It _didn’t_. People knew he was missing this time. It wouldn’t be another seventy years with a collar ‘round his neck. Whoever it was — he was being dense and he knew it, but God, he didn’t need it confirmed — wouldn’t know what hit ‘em.

Maybe if he said it enough, the hollowness in his gut would ease.

Soft notes like raindrops eased into the quiet, the ripples gradually growing louder as they cycled through the ringtone again and again. A frustrated grunt preceded the sound of a pen rolling to stillness as the ringing stopped.

“Yes?” A pause, and then several attempts to interrupt which were summarily ignored, by the way they stuttered into silence. Finally, Bucky heard, “I do know the goal for this exercise, ma’am, but I thought there was time to determine a baseline —.” The man blew out a long breath, presumably listening to the other person. “No, of course not. The formula’s untested, so I can’t guarantee —- yes. Because it would corrupt the data, I — yes. Yes, alright, send him down. I’ll get started.”

The phone clattered to the tabletop. Curses filled the air as something squeaked and rattled across the floor. It sounded like one of the wheeled, backless things Tony liked in his workshop.

Buck couldn’t make heads or tails of the one-sided conversation, past someone being unhappy with his personal Doctor Frankenstein. There wasn’t any way that meant good things for him, especially since that confirmed someone else was pulling this guy’s strings.

Heavy, swift steps crossed and crisscrossed the floor, interrupted by the click of magnetic latches opening and closing. Bucky felt his face scrunch as he tried to make a mental picture just from the sounds weaving around the constant, angry mumbles.

The steps came to a halt right beside Bucky, making it easier to understand the man’s irritated ranting. “Years, I worked for this,” he heard as something metallic gave a gentle clink. The rough tug on the needle in his arm meant the I.V. was being messed with.

Bucky’s heart sped up despite his attempts to keep it even.

“And now it’s not a main objective? Like I haven’t made a thousand sacrifices already?” A pause broke the steady flow of words, and a gust of air signaled a sigh. “Well, isn’t not like a few more are going to ruin everything,” came next, defeated and tired. “They’ve done so much for me to get even this far,” and Bucky perked up.

It wasn’t much, but it was the first time anything about the group holding Buck had been mentioned, other than the phone call. Bucky’s mind whirled. He needed more information. Who was calling the shots? What did they want Bucky for? Whatever it was, it meant there were at least two different purposes to kidnapping him… which meant Buck might be able to play them off one another. If he could ever figure those reasons out, anyway.

“After all, they did give me this, didn’t they?” The needle in his arm slid free in one swift motion. Bucky could hear the bag as it was removed, the liquid inside sloshing. “This shouldn’t set me back too far.” A new needle bit into his elbow, just below the old insertion spot.

Bucky wiggled his fingers as coolness trickled into his veins. He went limp against the table, resigned and hollow. Whatever it was, the man had said it wasn’t tested. Better to ride it out than fight too early and wear himself out.

* * *

They’d been drinking long enough for the booze to grow warm when Bucky raised yet another bottle to his lips. He’d long since given up on getting properly sloshed, but his body was lax and slow, the world pleasantly numbed. Or not, he thought as he took another pull before settling the stolen Vodka between his legs. Might be the company and not the alcohol.

Beside him, Clint slumped more than he sat, propped up between Bucky’s shoulder and the wall at their backs. As the night progressed, Clint’s face grew more and more blotchy, his movements wide and sloppy. The brightness in his eyes had faded long before he’d begun to slur.

Booze wasn’t something you drank to feel better, his mama always said. Booze was for wallowing. She wasn’t wrong.

They’d opened bottle after bottle of despair and swallowed it down until they could pretend it was there by choice.  

Bucky took another swig, wrenching his attention back to Clint’s aimless chatter. Instead of the usual string of stupid one-liners, Clint seemed to be debating the merits of Bucky’s old M1941 Johnson rifle against whatever gun Clint decided was superior at that moment.

“Modified that gun,” he managed to drawl, slipping into one of Clint’s open-mouthed pauses as his thoughts escaped him. It set Clint off again, gesturing with one hand wrapped tight around his whiskey. The words, thick and stumbling as they tripped from Clint’s tongue, seemed to fade into the fog around Bucky’s head. He didn’t want to hear the words, anyway. Clint’s voice, so close to his ear, was better than any lullaby found in this godforsaken century. He closed his eyes and tipped his head back, letting himself lean a little heavier on Clint’s side.

“I won’t do it,” Clint said, clear as a bell. Bucky startled up, nearly fumbling the bottle he’d begun to lift to his mouth. Clint sounded hard, determined. Sober.

“What?” Bucky settled his booze back down, holding it between his thighs as he shifted to see Clint’s face better in the scant light.

“Won’t do it again, Buck.” Clint’s mouth was thin, his eyes wet. “All those people. I killed ‘em. It was me. I can’t — It was _me_.”

Bucky jerked, the familiar words sounding alien in Clint’s voice. The lassitude vanished from his limbs in the space of a breath. He was drowning under a sea of faces: dolls with mouths gaping red to mirror the bullet holes he’d left, bruised and broken and abandoned where they’d fallen. A tiny body in its crib, a woman’s weak hand scrabbling at his metal wrist, a man, coughing blood and trying to stand as someone screamed —

“Never again,” Clint continued, the words fierce and forced between his clenched teeth. He turned to Bucky, his face eerily blank, now. “You get it.”

“Yeah,” Bucky rasped, digging his fingers into his thigh as he stared back. “Yeah, I do.”

“You come for me,” Clint said, shuffling himself upright, never breaking from Bucky’s face. “You come for me, and I’ll come for you. I’ll— “ He snorted, wiping a clumsy hand over his face. “God, I wanna keep you _safe_. Wanna keep you — I don’t care how it stops, you hear me? Don’t care if you stop it with a fuckin’ bullet through my skull, so long as it _stops_.”

Bucky ran his tongue over his bottom lip, caught and held in Clint’s intensity. His heart pounded, but he couldn’t catch his breath. He’d known Clint understood, but he hadn’t _known_.

Clint held out one hand, his fingers curled into his palm and his pinky extended and hooked. “You come for me,” he repeated, steady and solemn. “And I’ll come for you. I’ll make it stop. Won’t let it happen again. Promise.”

Bucky’s mouth opened and closed as he stared at Clint’s hand. Slowly, he reached out and twined his own finger around Clint’s, raising his eyes to meet Clint’s gaze. The world seemed frozen around them as they sat. Then, Bucky swallowed and parted his lips.

“Promise,” he croaked as he twisted his hand to envelop Clint’s, yanking until Clint tumbled into his chest. “It’s a promise.”

* * *

Hands on his face startled Bucky, his body twitching as they removed the blindfold and head restraint. Light stabbed into his skull, and he squeezed his eyes shut. Fingertips pried the lids back, letting someone aim a penlight directly into his pupils. The intrusion disappeared as quick as it had begun, leaving him to blink clumsily at the blurry ceiling.

Underneath him, the flat surface he’d been bound to gave a stuttering creak and a sharp whine. His eyes went wide as it shuddered, the support along his legs dropping away. Reflexively, he tried to arch his body but water seemed to have replaced his bones as he struggled to move. When it settled, he was sitting instead of laying flat, limbs still held fast.

The hands came back, picking at the edges of the tape over his mouth. Bucky screwed his eyes shut, knowing what would follow. Sure enough, the fingers abandoned all attempts at delicacy, and the tape was ripped from his face, taking what seemed like half of his mouth with it. He groaned, rolled his lips between his teeth, and popping his jaw.

When he opened his eyes, a man stood over him.  Whip-thin and tall, with his shoulders hunched, the reality of Bucky’s latest tormenter was underwhelming. Concentration creased his sharp face as he checked Bucky’s I.V. Thick lenses sat on a nose as straight and sharp as a knife. They framed dark, drooping eyes. Tight black curls were sprinkled with gray and the pristine white of his coat only highlighted the dull tint of his pale brown skin.  

Bucky blinked. “Who'n hell are you?” He felt like he was floating, the stuff in his system making him both too cold and too hot. A breeze seemed to be winding its way through his brain, tickling inside his skull and pressing behind his eyes. It seemed to slip through his thoughts and scatter them like leaves.

“Wrong question,” came an unfamiliar voice, off to the side. Bucky was afraid his head would pop clean off if he tried to look. Heavy, booted footsteps wandered closer. The first guy — Lab Coat, Bucky decided — stuffed his hands into his pockets and straightened his spine as he watched the newcomer approach.

“The fuck are you?”

“Much better question, but unfortunately for you, still the wrong one.” Another face slid into Bucky’s field of vision, this one bearing a cocky grin. “‘Sides, I’m the one who’s supposed to be asking things.” He tilted his head and arched his eyebrows. “Kind of the whole point, y’know?”

The newcomer wore something like modern military gear in black: thick combat boots, loose pants with pockets down each leg, belt with no buckle and a plain black tee. He wore a thigh holster, with a long knife strapped to the opposite calf. Spare ammunition took up the space on the other thigh. Fingerless gloves completed the overdone outfit.

Bucky scoffed, raising an unimpressed as the man tried to stare him down. The guy crossed his arms, making his arms bulge, and ran a thick knuckle down the barrel of the gun nestled in his shoulder holster. Bucky’d seen men set their weapons off like that, destroying their own shoulders.

His lips felt heavy as he shaped them into a sneer. Without the band across his forehead, Bucky had trouble keeping his head up enough to look the idiotic new guy in the eyes. The water in his bones was spreading, slipping out like the ocean tide to erode away his nerves, turning his spine into a useless, floating twig. “What’re you after?”

“And there it is,” New Guy responded, amusement still rich in his far-away tone. He gave Bucky’s cheek a playful tap and pulled off his gloves, stuffing them into a pocket. “Close enough anyway. Hey, Doc, he ready for me?”

The ocean was too close, pulling Bucky under, clogging his ears and his eyes. He lost track of New Guy under a fresh swell. His arm was dragging him down, heavy, and useless. Water closed over his head, the sun a twinkling glow high above. Clint’s ridiculous face floated by, saying, “Shoulda taken me up on those surfing lessons, Buck. You could’ve stayed afloat, then.”

Waves crashed together and he flinched at the sound. “Alright. Tell me about Captain America, Soldier.”

Captain America? No, Steve. Strong, tall Steve, trying to out-do Atlas with the burden on his shoulders. Steve, who hadn’t wanted him to go. “Gonna be s’mad.”

“Oookay,” the water said, pressing close enough to blot out the light. “Why’s he going to be mad?”

Because Steve expected everyone to play by his rules and no one ever did. Because Steve thought Bucky died in the snow and now his corpse was going to wash up on the sand. Because Steve cared, and cared and Bucky always “...let ‘im down.”

“That’s… useless, okay, great. Let’s try again.” The waves eddied around him as they cleared the throat they didn’t have. “Steve Rogers. What’s his weakness?”

Bucky snorted, sidetracked by trying to keep his eyes open in the stinging salt.  Steve Rogers hadn’t let any damn weaknesses win when he was the size of an angry grape. Wasn’t any different now. “On’ way t’ get under Stevie’s skin’s through his people.” And he’d destroy the world to get his people. Hadn’t Buck learned that the hard way, when he was running?

“Good, good. Who are his people? You?”

“Wha?”

“Who would Stevie miss the most?”

Bucky let a laugh bubble out into the water, watched as the sound turned into rings which fled out into the sea beyond. “Ton’. He’d miss Tony.” Bucky watched as the rings bounced off one another, spawning new ripples far above his head. Steve would miss Tony, but Bucky?  “I... miss Clint.”

The waves paused, before pulling all the little ripples back into itself, pulling Bucky further away from the surface. They asked Bucky something new, but Bucky couldn’t focus.

Snippets of Clint were woven in the shifting tides beneath Bucky’s feet. His lopsided smile, the dark purr of his sleep-voice, the warmth he left when he curled his body around Bucky’s. Try as he might, Bucky couldn’t reach them. They dissipated even as he stretched, to be replaced by new currents. These carried the scorch of Clint’s kisses, the safety of his arms and the understanding, the acceptance in his bright eyes. They wrapped Bucky in the sweetness, the lightness Clint brought to Bucky’s life, hugged him tight and then faded away.

“Come back,” he tried to call, the words slipping into nothing just past his teeth. Why did they leave, without letting him love them back?

The ocean grew dark and angry, and Bucky cowered. A waterspout sucked him out of the sea, left him shivering and near tears. He hadn’t meant to upset it. It hurled him out of its embrace, onto the coarse dry rocks of its beach. They stung his cheek, over and over, until he huddled in on himself, begging for forgiveness.

“ — not working on _him_ , how the fuck are we gonna use it on Rogers!” snarled the spout, bending in two to scrape another rock along Bucky’s exposed skin.

“I’m a doctor, not a _witch_ ,” the rocks said back, grounding themselves to dust. “Truth serums don’t lie in the realm of human medicine! I can encourage him to talk, but not control what it’s about.”

“Go take a walk, Doc,” the spout answered, shrinking down to scour a path through the beach. “I’ll handle the rest of this.” The rocks groaned under the onslaught as Bucky tried to crawl back to the water, back down to where Clint was hiding, soft and welcoming.

“Okay,” the water accepted him, pulled him down by his wrists and held him. “Change of plans. Tell me about Clint Barton.”

Bucky’s mouth opened and his heart fell out.

* * *

Time had no meaning down in the great depths of the ocean. Centuries passed on land while Bucky struggled in vain to catch Clint’s teasing, iridescent form and he didn't care. Again and again the water let him close enough to see the stars in Clint’s dancing eyes, close enough to brush the cords of muscle in his legs before it would condense around him, hold him fast as Clint floated away.

The water talked and talked, demanded, bellowed and threatened but Bucky let the storm flow over him as he watched Clint slip through the rippling light above. Enraged, the water renewed its grip around his wrists, grinding the bones together until his mouth dropped open on a pained shout. Swift and sure, it poured itself down his throat, filling him from the inside out, cutting off his senses as it forced him down, down into the deep where Bucky knew Clint couldn’t go.

Bucky fought, twisting and curling, but he could not force the water out. It settled in his stomach like a stone, and seeped into his blood. It drowned him, out of reach of the sunlight. It sank into his very soul and tried to flush it from his body.

Men weren’t built to hold the unrelenting power of the tide inside their bones.

Pressure ground his marrow to dust, crushed his ribs into his lungs, burst his heart. The water laughed inside him, telling him he would be born anew. Bucky bellowed, white bubbles trickling out into the dark abyss as he dug his feet into the muck and refused to bend. It yanked at him, pushing and pulling at his mind, trying to change him. Unmake him. Destroy him.

Bucky held tight to the image of sunlight pouring down through the water, lighting up Clint’s floating, blond locks, turning it into a halo around his stupid mug. Clint’s hand was just out of reach. He would not leave Clint here alone, where monsters could gobble him up from the midnight below. Stretching as far as he could with his feet buried in the slick, slimy dirt, Bucky shouted Clint’s name.

Something gave, a dam bursting behind his sternum, and Bucky began to drift, little by little, back to the light. He could wait. Clint would find him, he always found him.

He broke the surface, and opened his eyes to the barren, white room he’d been in forever. Disoriented, Bucky could only sit and stare, counting each inhale until the world felt more real. His body ached, but in a faint, distant way. Every few breaths he would remember he wanted to flex, to stretch his muscles as best he could, to wet his lips or blink his stinging eyes but the lethargy would never let him turn the thought into motion.

“You _what_ —” Lab Coat cut himself off to take a noisy breath. When he spoke again, it was in a measured, empty tone. “How, exactly, did that strike you as the best option?”

“Taking too long. Got a timeline, Doc, don’t get your panties in a twist. Won’t hurt your little tests any, especially since the important one was a goddamned failure.”

Someone spluttered, and Bucky — Bucky didn’t do anything. He sat, unmoving, each inhale exactly the same as the rest, his heart a slow, steady thump in his chest. When he tried to slide his eyes to the side, they never wavered from the far wall. Saliva built in his mouth, but his throat only swallowed out of reflex.

No, Bucky thought, oh no. Please no.

Tuning out the voices, Bucky went through each and every movement his body was capable of. Not a finger twitched, his mouth never opened, his abdomen remained lax. Not even his nostrils would flare.

They’d done something, something new to him. He was a prisoner inside his own flesh, all over again. Somehow, it seemed more hellish than ever, being able to think for himself while his body was someone’s puppet.

He was immobile, and he’d talked. It hit him all at once, the sound of someone else’s voice in the water, and how they’d wanted things from him. The goon had been asking questions, and he’d answered, but he didn’t know what he’d _said_.

He didn’t fucking know. It could have been _anything_ , he realized, panic swelling. He wanted to punch a hole in the guy’s face, to turn and throw the son of a bitch against a wall until his own answers spilled out, wanted to fist his hands in his hair and scream. Logic said they wanted information on the team as a whole, on Steve in particular as both the man in charge and sole heir of the original Super Serum— but Bucky could only remember how he’d thought he was chasing Clint.

God, _Clint_.

His chest rose and fell despite the horrible weight smothering him. The screams never made it to his throat, shredding the lining of his ribs, pooling in the hollow between his collarbones as he seethed inside the cage of his own body. Clint, who was so broken but so good, who knew him but never shied from him, who pressed him back into his skin even as he wore a mask over his own face.

He’d raze this whole place to the ground before he let them touch Clint.

A hand materialized before his face, the curved forefinger sliding up one cheek. If Bucky’s body had been under his own control, he would have gaped at the contact. He could feel the soft pressure as it skidded over his rough skin. That had to be important, right? His limbs were locked away but his brain was still connected enough to register touch.

“Interesting. He’s crying.”

“Who gives a shit, Doc? Is he lucid yet, that’s what I wanna know.”

Lab Coat dropped down into a squat in front of Bucky, scowling off at the other idiot. When he turned back to Bucky, he presented the cupped finger, with a single trembling blot of water poised on his knuckle. “Did you know you were crying?” As he spoke, he spread the moisture along his finger with a thumb, his face folded into intense lines.

“No,” Bucky answered without answering. Except it was his mouth which moved, and his voice that came out. Flatter, without the weird rasp his voice usually had these days. Immediately, Bucky tried to open his mouth again, to sling his own barrage of questions as Lab Coat stood, but it refused to budge.

Please, he begged over and over, the words never so much as tickling his tongue, please let me be wrong.

The second man sauntered into view, a wicked smirk set on his face. “Aw,” he said in a godawful falsetto. “Poor Soldier’s sad.”

And there it was, everything he’d dreaded in one fucking word. The world dropped from under him, white eating into his vision as he shut down.

They’d triggered him. It circled around his head, as he wailed behind his own eyes. They’d triggered him while he was hallucinating, reached into his skull and pulled the Winter programming out while he drowned. He hadn’t even been lucid enough to fight it.

They’d activated the Soldier and _he’d told them about Clint_.

A switch had been flipped; the cold wash of terror morphing into a blazing, molten flood of rage. Much like a Phoenix, his resolve unfurled from the flames, a hard, hot ball anchored in his chest. They’d used him and broken him and used him again. He would not be the gateway this time. They _would not_ get Clint.

He would break them down to their tiniest joints with his bare hands if he had to.

“Why so sad, Soldier?” Goon asked, still in that fake, fruity voice. He planted his hands on his hips and bent closer. The man shifted, bringing one hand over to clap at the curve of Bucky’s throat. A bright green octopus marked the skin inside his wrist.

Bucky took advantage of his proximity to memorize him. Like a stereotypical gym rat with delusions of power, the guy was boxy and solid. Straw colored hair, cropped close to his white skin, made his already square face seem wider. Murky hazel eyes squinted at Bucky over a nose that’d been busted more than once. The full bottom lip and thin, bowed top didn’t fit in with the rest of his features at all. More importantly, scars decorated the left half of his face: thin white lines skating from his ear to his bushy brow. Another peeked out from under the collar of his shirt, this one a heavy rope of scar tissue.

Even as Bucky’s mind whirled, his mouth dropped open of its own accord. “I will protect him,” Bucky said.

No, _Bucky_ didn’t say. The _Soldier_ said. Except, they were the same. Weren’t they? Bucky’s mind spun off in a new direction, frantic and excited. The mind wasn’t a computer. They’d never been able to delete Bucky to insert their pet, no, they’d had to bury him. And Lab Coat’s stuff had left him so damned addled — God, Bucky wanted to _howl_. Something had gone wrong, but what? Where? Was it only the stuff Lab Coat injected that left him partially separate and sane? Or had he been gone long enough, recovered enough of himself to break down the way they’d tried to brick him up inside his head?

Could he break down the rest of the wall? Fuck, where would he even start? Buck was the brawn, nowadays, not the brains. He shook himself. Being an ice-pop for seven decades might make him behind, but he wasn’t no dummy, either. And he had stubbornness in spades. He would figure it out

Failure was not an option.

“What?” Lab Coat asked, his brow furrowed as he turned to regard the Goon. “Did you give him orders?”

“Nah,” Goon replied. “Bet this is more weepy bull.” He huffed and shouldered Lab Coat out of the way to retrieve the closest chair with legs. The chair made an obnoxious squeal as he dragged it closer. He spun it into place, and flopped down into it, the spare magazines clanging against the metal edge. For a moment, he sat sprawled in the chair, eyeing Bucky with a smile across his broad face

“Lemme guess, you gotta protect your ickle boytoy, right?” Goon prodded Bucky’s leg with one booted foot. “Gotta keep that moron of an archer safe.” He snorted. “Somethin’s wrong with your code, kid. Or you were just defective from the get-go.”

Buck had countless things to say to that, and not a single one found its way past the vice controlling his vocal cords. Goon narrowed his eyes, tilting his head to the side as he looked Bucky over. “What’s goin’ on now, Soldier? I see your hands are all fisted.”

Thankfully, the programming didn’t respond to the ambiguous question, giving Bucky several precious seconds to take stock of himself.  His hands were, indeed, fisted tight enough to leave nail marks in the meat of his palm. Tears had left sticky tracks down his face, unnoticed until Lab Coat brought attention to it.

The body — _his_ body—  was responding, not to outside stimulus, but to Bucky’s inner state. Bucky threw his mental hands out, frantic to dig into something, anything that he could use to widen the hole between his mind and his flesh.

“The programming does best with direct remarks,” Lab Coat said on a sigh.

Goon grunted. “Why are your hands fisted?”

“The asset kills with his hands,” Bucky’s mouth said, blank as fresh snow.

Goon sat back, letting out a low, rumbling, “Oh- _ho_.” He cocked his head to the side, a slight frown creasing his face. “Did you know,” Goon started, his posture challenging, “That your original handlers kept extensive records? The Russian ones, from way back, when we first tricked you out. Pretty funny, really. Captain America might’ve stuck to the dance circuit if we hadn’t snagged you. Talk about making your own demons.” He paused.

It was clear he was checking Bucky, the programming, over for responses to his ham-handed barbs. Bucky wanted to laugh. Focusing hard on getting his toes to wiggle, he listened to the guy’s twaddle with half an ear.

“And then you fall right into our laps, and we have our very own Super Soldier – the best friend of our most prominent enemy, no less. Too bad we didn’t figure out the Captain was Steve Rogers ‘til we thought he was dead.”

And that snapped Bucky’s attention right back. He snarled, fear trickling back into his anger. Bucky back in Hydra’s hands — Steve was stupid enough to let that cloud his tactical thinking. If this dunce played his cards right, Steve would walk right in.

Fuck, they didn’t even have to do _anything_ , Steve was a _goddamn idiot_ and how had he just thought of this when he’d known the man since they were squalling for milk?

Apparently restless, the guy got to his feet, wandering around as he spoke. “‘Cept he wasn’t dead, was he? Man, the things we coulda done with him if we’d found him…”

The bait was obvious and poorly thought out and Bucky didn’t care. He was going to rip this asshole’s tongue out of his mouth and feed it to him. Toes flexing hard into the smooth surface underneath them, Bucky knocked another brick from the wall between his parts. His nose flared and the bolt of his jaw pulsed as his spine grew rigid.

Goon crouched down in front of Bucky, searching his face. He smirked, tapping at Bucky’s tense jaw. It occurred to Bucky suddenly that this man was actively trying to rile Bucky up, as though he was trying to sabotage his own interrogation. Why the hell would he do that?   
  
“Old news, right?” Goon said, balanced on his toes, elbows perched precariously on his knees. “What’s important now is that we got our favorite assassin back in the nest — and you have some tales to tell me, Soldier.” Reaching out, he chucked Bucky under the chin, and pushed himself up enough to grab the chair. He reversed it, plopping down to lean over the back of the chair.    
  
“Asset, report on Steve Rogers, Codename Captain America.”   
  
All his wild thoughts ground to a halt. Bucky let out a vicious string of curses, phantom hands clapped tight over his mouth in a failed bid to keep himself from responding. The Asset spoke, slow and careful past the mental gag, the programming leaving sharp pinches behind as he tried to steer it away from anything useful. He could do this, he could.  It was his head! “Steve Rogers, Codename Captain America, priority threat. Loosely affiliated with SHIELD, acting head of the Avengers.”   
  
“Weaknesses?”

Bucky bellowed, helpless as he felt his mouth open a second time. He gathered all his strength, all the fierceness of his emotions and threw a goddamn tantrum. His fingers curled into his palms all over again, hard enough for pain to zing up his human arm as nails broke the skin. Every muscle in his body tensed, his lips peeling back from his teeth as he stared  the Hydra Goon down.

“Weaknesses. Of. Captain. America.”

“No known weaknesses,” the programming responded, the words thick and halting as they slipped from Bucky’s throat. Christ, Buck wanted to sink his damn teeth into this fucker’s throat and rip it out. He let the feeling unfold, hoarded it close to himself as it grew. The more riled he was, the more he could chip away at the programming.

“Not even you, Barnes? Does the good Captain not care for loyalty anymore? He marched into a war for you, once.”

A laugh bubbled out of Bucky's throat, dark and low and ugly. Goon’s eyes widened. He threw an arm out, preventing Lab Coat from getting closer. “Get out,” he said, turning his head without taking his eyes off Bucky. Lab Coat spun on his heel and stalked away.

“Maybe it’s you. All those old notes — you cried for your little friend sometimes, you know that? We’d have to wipe you.” Goon’s pleasant, even tone didn’t match the cruel cant to his features. “And every time, you’d ask about Stevie, what had we done to poor little Stevie. But this time…” He spread his hands out wide, faux confusion etched in his face. “This time you keep callin’ out for somebody else.” He hunched over the back of the chair, pulling it up onto two legs so he could lean closer to Bucky.

Bucky could only snarl back, a wordless growl vibrating through his chest as his body twitched and rocked unpredictably.

“Clinton. Francis. Barton.” Goon let his chair settle back onto all four legs, resettling his arms so one hung off the back. “Former archer and current resident nut job extraordinaire.” 

A shiver rippled through his frame. If they so much as breathed on Clint, he was going to fucking “Kill you,” he hissed.

“Ha! What happened, Soldier? You too dirty for Cap?” He tsked, mocking, as he straightened again. “Poor little Barnes, too damned for the good Captain. But that Hawk-guy, now _there’s_ a piece of work, man. Ballsy bastard, using arrows. Or maybe he's just stupid. Now me,” and he gestured to himself, “I figure he's just fucking weak. I mean, this is the moron who helped _aliens_ invade the planet!” He shook his head, feigning sadness. “But we’re the bad guys, right?”   
  
Distantly, Bucky realized he was breathing like a racehorse, his teeth clenched and his lips peeled back. Metal groaned as his wrists scraped back and forth under the tight curves pinning his arms.   
  
“Oh, am I- is this upsetting for you, Soldier?” He waved his hand back and forth between them. “I am so sorry. But don't worry, it won't be a problem for long.” Slowly, he climbed to his feet, slipping one hand into the pocket on his left hip. He rested one foot up on the chair, leaning down to peer into Bucky face.   
  
Bucky began to writhe, head tossing back and forth, his body up as high as he could while seated and bound. Words burst from him, threats and curses mingling into a violent cascade.   
  
“Oh, Bucky, Bucky, Bucky.” Goon crowded in close, slapping a heavy hand over Bucky’s mouth as he pinned his head in place. “The higher ups think we’ll lose intel if we cleanse you, but see... I don’t really give a shit.” 

He dropped his voice, made it far too intimate as he whispered into Bucky’s ear, “I am going to wipe you of all that you are, James Buchanan Barnes. And when you can't remember why it was important, you are going to give me _everything_ on your precious little family. And then? Then I am going to give you a new mission, Soldier. You’re going to retrieve Clint Barton for me. You’re going to hold him down while we cleanse him. You’re going to watch the life drain out of his eyes and not even know what you’re missing.”


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Clint wakes up in Medical.

Familiar, gentle fingers carded through his hair. Clint groaned, flopping onto his side to burrow deeper into the warm hip settled beside him. His head hurt, but the steady pressure slipping from his crown to his nape worked better than an Advil.

“Sorry, but it’s time to get up.”

Clint stilled, fully awake in an instant, his breathing going shallow. “You’re dead, and I’m hallucinating again. This isn’t real.”

The hand in his hair paused before pulling away.  Without them, Clint’s head wanted to wobble right off his shoulders. “Actually, this is very real. But you’re right, I’m still dead. Which is a good thing, since a Lazarus moment could make things awkward for your new paramour.”

“Fuck off, Phil. That isn’t funny.”

Something squeaked, but Clint kept his face pressed into Phil’s leg as he spoke. “And Buck’s not mine, not anymore than you were. Don’t think he’d care much, either way.

The squeak happened again, a strangled noise that hid the sigh Clint could feel in Phil’s body. “Your self confidence is still terrible, I see.” Phil tapped him on the head and moved away. “Much as I’d love to explain why you’re an idiot, that’s not actually why I’m here.”

“Awesome,” Clint mumbled. “That mean you’re done talking to me about Buck now?”

“For the moment, yes.”

Clint sighed, flopping onto his back and pressing the heels of his palms into his eyes. “I fucking miss you, asshole.”

“James Barnes—”

“Bucky is amazing, and I’m gonna hang around as long as he’ll let me. Doesn’t mean I don’t miss you, too.”

“That might be the most emotionally aware statement I’ve ever heard from you. I’m impressed.”

“Fuck you, boss.” Clint groaned as he hauled himself upright, finally opening his eyes. “Aw, hell.”

Bruce and Tony blinked at him from across the medical wing, Bruce’s hand covering Tony’s mouth. Behind him, deliberate steps let him know Phil hadn’t vanished yet. Imaginary or not, having Phil at his back let Clint relax the stiff set of his spine.

“Lemme guess,” Clint asked on a sigh as he cracked his neck. “That was all out loud.”

Tony pulled Bruce’s hand off his face. They exchanged a grimace, and shrugged in unison. Only Bruce could hold Clint’s gaze for longer than a breath. Ignoring Tony’s obvious unease, Bruce stepped forward, pulling a penlight from his pocket.

“Hardly anything incriminating, “ Bruce said. Tony made a strangled noise and Bruce huffed out a laugh through his nose. “It’s not new information, Tony.” The light flashed across Clint pupils. Satisfied, Bruce stepped away, and tucked the light back into his pocket. “How’re you feeling?”

Clint shrugged. “Got a hell of a headache, so. About normal.”

“Nothing else seems out of the ordinary? No spots or anything?”

Clint opened his mouth, only to close it again as he looked around the room. His hands curled into the bed sheets, pulling them taut underneath him. He swallowed, turning his head to take in the rest of the room. Bruce’s lab coat, the empty beds, the cabinets and shelves and counters. All of them, wrong.

He pushed himself forward, off the bed, to stand upright. Medical should be shades of white on top of white, sterile and blank. Instead, the room was a turquoise so faint Clint hadn’t noticed until now. He moved too fast and his knees buckled. Bruce caught him under the arms as he crumpled, calling Tony closer to manhandle Clint back into bed.

“The hell are you doing?” Tony demanded, hands fluttering.

“It’s not white,” Clint bit out, not caring that it didn’t make sense. “It’s supposed to be  _ white _ .”

“What’s white?”

“I want my bow,” Clint responded, well aware of how petulant he sounded and not particularly caring. “Where’d it go?” He scowled when they exchanged expressions, a rapid, silent discussion that left him out. 

“They’re worried,” Phil said, hand on his shoulder.

“They’re fucking  _ blue _ ,” Clint mimicked, twisting to look over his shoulder. Phil’s face remained impassive. Clint stuck his tongue out at him.

“Blue?” Tony muttered to Bruce. “It’s not white, it’s blue?”

Clint looked back in time to catch Bruce push his glasses up and rub at the edges of his eyes. “I thought you said he was seeing Loki. How long has Coulson been part of this?”

“I did say. Because he said. No idea. I’m still stuck on the blue thing.”

“The room,” Clint interjected. “All the white stuff? Blue. Like acid wash, but in reverse. What’s going on?”

“Been waiting on you to clue us in on a few things, Robin Hood. You’ve been unconscious for almost two hours, but we couldn’t find anything wrong with you.”

Clint glowered, crossing his arms over his chest like a child.

“We left your bow upstairs,” Bruce offered. He cleared his throat as he settled into a nearby stool. “Do you think you could tell us what's been going on now?”

“Clinton.” Phil’s voice snared his attention, drawing his gaze to where the Agent loitered beside Tony. “It’s past time.”

After a beat, Clint gave a sharp nod. “Yeah. Yeah, give me a minute.”

Bruce stood, gathering Tony under his arm like the saint he was as he ushered them both away. Tony gave a token resistance, his mouth tight when he glanced back over his shoulder. Phil offered a small, impish smile, as though daring Clint to go on.

He’d never been good at backing down from a challenge. It wasn’t all that surprising Phil continued to exploit that aspect of his personality. His own mouth twitched. In his defense, Bucky wasn’t any better - at either backing down, or offering challenge.

Clint closed his eyes. The bow—any bow—had been his version of a teddy bear since he’d first picked one up. He hated the way his body seemed to be missing the limb it needed most.

He shifted, drawing his legs up onto the bed, and curving his back to rest his head against his knees. The position left his back exposed and made his spine prickle.  More importantly, it protected the soft skin of his stomach, and the flat place in the center of his chest. The spot Loki had tugged his soul through.

Air forced his lungs to expand, and he counted automatically. In-two-three. Out-two-three. Repeat. Behind his eyes, the solid weight of his favorite bow curved against his hands. The string hummed against his calloused fingertips, and the arrow settled into place without a thought. He gripped it, kept it in place as he drew the arrow back by his ear, feet planted and body bladed.

He let fly, sitting along the tip of the arrow head as it whistled through the air. It punched into the target, dead center, and he felt like he could breathe again.

Once his eyes fluttered open, he found Bruce and Tony nearby. They were flicking holographic screens between their stations and mumbling to each other. Phil seemed to have vanished, again. Clint squashed the flare of hurt in his chest. Phil wasn’t real. Wasn’t his. He needed to stop pining over a dead man, a man who hadn’t wanted him in the first place… no matter what his Force-Ghost said.

Bucky’s face flashed across his mind, and he flinched. It wasn’t fair to any of them.

“Okay, “ Clint rasped past his dry throat. “You want the rundown?” He met Bruce’s and then Tony’s eyes as they froze. “Okay,” he repeated, more to himself than anything else. He eased himself out of the ball he’d curled into, letting his legs fall back off the edge of the bed.

Debrief, he reminded himself. This is only another debrief. Tony settled himself up on a counter as Clint steeled himself. Bruce dropped onto the closest stool. They watched him, faces expectant and worried. God, he wished they’d look anywhere else.

“Full spectrum hallucinations, all senses involved.” Clint rattled off, doing his best to keep his voice level. He kept his eyes trained on the far wall. “Phil’s secondary, newer. Main focus is—” Clint faltered, rolling his lips between his teeth. There was no way in hell he was saying the name out aloud again.

“Loki,” Tony supplied. When Clint darted a grateful glance his way, Tony was picking at his pants, his head bowed and his shoulders hunched. “Give him a nickname or something.” Tony shot him a fake smile before looking away.

“‘Thor’s brother’ is kind of a mouthful,” Bruce added, thoughtful.

“Voldemort,” Clint decided, “is the central focus. Nightmares. Flashbacks. Insomnia. Inability to distinguish reality. Hyperarousal, so most probably also PTSD. Er, more of it.”

“Alright,” Bruce murmured, his forehead furrowed in thought. He bit his lip, and took his glasses off, fiddling with them.

“If I hadn’t seen it firsthand,” Tony murmured, “I’d think PTSD, too.”

That seemed to decide Bruce. He slipped his glasses back up his nose. “Jarvis,” he said, rising to clear the windows on his side of the desk. “Do you have—”

New files flared to life before him, minimized to a neat row of thin boxes. “Atta boy,” Tony crowed as he dove back into his own research, hands dancing through the air.

Bruce gave a surprised grunt, tapping one file into full size.

“I recorded each of Agent Barton’s noticeable episodes,” Jarvis’ smooth voice filled the air. “To the best of my abilities, I have organized them by type and duration. I have also compiled common phrases, and reactions and flagged violent outbursts. The initial incident took place seventy-three minutes after Agent Barton entered the Tower.” Another cascade of files appeared as Jarvis spoke.

Clint’s jaw dropped. A snake wound through his ribs, strangling his lungs, cracking the bones. It slithered into his marrow, scraping its cold scales along his frayed nerves. He couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think, couldn’t move. Time froze as the feeling burst from his spine to sink fangs deep inside his brain.

“Ah, thank you,” Bruce murmured, taken aback. “Have you also taken into consideration his avoidance for contact outside of Bucky? He mentioned the hyperarousal and subsequent paranoia already, but…” He hummed, bringing one hand up to brush against the nearest file. “If we can establish some kind of baseline for the typical PTSD symptoms, we’ll at least have a starting point.”

New files bloomed before Bruce and Tony, and the old ones rearranged themselves. Bruce made a pleased noise, pulling a file closer with two fingers.

Clint launched himself to his feet, clenching his hands to stop the tremors. “This entire time,” he said, drawing both men’s attention. “This  _ entire fucking time, _ and you’ve been spying on me.” The words burned his tongue, full of venom and fury. He moved to step closer, and paused, something queasy settling in his stomach. Instead he retreated, stepping behind the bed. They still felt too close.

“You’ve been keeping records on me,” he continued, his voice rising. “The fuck was all the safe space shit then? All that crap Steve spewed at Fury about  _ not _ keeping me under a fuckin’ microscope?” Clint cut off whatever Bruce tried to say with a violent swipe of his hands. “All that bullshit about  _ trust _ ,” he had to force the words out past the fist around his throat. “And you’ve been lying to me since  _ day one _ !”

Christ, he couldn’t deal with this. Bile burned as it rose in his throat. Swallowing didn’t seem to make a damn bit of difference. The snake coiled around his heart and squeezed hard enough to stagger him.

“It’s not like that,” Tony blurted, tumbling around the bench. Bruce caught his arm, holding him in place.

Clint wasn’t listening. The sick feeling in his gut grew, and turned his veins to frost as he thought of something else, something worse. He closed his eyes, helpless against the way his body shook, the way his voice betrayed the tears stuck in his chest.

“Bucky was in on it,” Clint spoke in a daze as he stared at the deep blue sheets on the bed. He was going to throw up, or pass out. Jump off the tower, maybe. Without permission, his arms wrapped tightly around himself, echoing the pressure under his skin. Inside the blank space taking up most of his brain, Clint worried if he let go, he’d never be able to put himself back together again.

He’d given so much of himself to Bucky, without ever really noticing. He’d _ trusted _ him. Of course it was all a lie. Hadn’t he just told Phil? Clint Barton didn’t get to keep nice things.

“Clint,” Bruce started, hesitant. His voice died when Clint started shaking his head and couldn’t stop.

“That’s why he kept me around. That’s why no one minded, I was another—another  _ mission _ .” His hollow voice broke in the middle and he wiped at his face absently. “Okay, yeah.” Clint looked around, his chest rising and falling quicker now. “I gotta—” He turned and stumbled away.

Belatedly, it occurred to him someone had cleaned his foot up better. Walking was about the only thing that didn’t hurt.

Footsteps scrambled behind him and Tony skidded to a stop in front of Clint, hands raised and outstretched. “ _ No _ ,” he shouted, fierce. “No,” Tony repeated, quieter but no less vehement. “It’s not like that  _ at all _ , Clint—” he threw his hands out, darting to the side when Clint tried to ease around him. “Oh my god, would you just let me  _ explain _ !”

Clint stilled, shoulders hunched as he curled in on himself. He kept his eyes wide to stall the water before it could spill down his cheeks.

“First off,” Tony said, arms still hovering at his sides, “James Barnes thinks the sun shines out your ass.”

Clint snorted, the rough jerk of his head giving the tears the momentum they needed to escape.

“I’m serious, asshole,” Tony snapped. His hands buried themselves in his hair and tugged. “Bucky has nothing to do with any of this,” he continued, struggling to keep his voice level. “No one has a problem with your relationship because we’re not a bunch of hypocritical jackasses. You two are good together, and you needed each other, and Jesus Christ, we were just fucking happy you two started actually  _ smiling. _ ” Tony cut himself off, visibly reining himself in.

Tony met Clint’s eyes, his mouth a stubborn line. “This is a safe space. This is our home, and you are one of us. We’re friends, okay? A really fucked up family.”

“Bullshit,” Clint croaked. “Friends don’t spy on each other like that.”

Bruce cleared his throat, drawing Clint’s gaze to the side as Bruce shuffled closer. “Far be it from me to poke holes,” Bruce murmured, a half smile sitting across his face. “But your best friend is the Black Widow. She spies on everyone, and honestly, I don’t even think she means to.”

Clint shook his head, wiping his face on his shoulder. “Nat’s different. She can’t help it.” He lifted his head to glare back at Bruce. “And she doesn’t turn around and give shit like that,” he pointed towards the floating files, “over to fucking Fury like I’m a lab rat. You, out of everyone, should get that.”

Tony growled. The noise caught Clint’s attention, dragging his eyes away from Bruce’s infuriating, calm face. “I want it on record that I am beyond pissed off that Steve Goddamn Rogers managed to get out of this. And I'm gonna kick his ass later. In the suit.”

“Noted,” Jarvis responded.

“What?” Clint asked, eyebrows bunching together. 

“Remember that whole ‘we pretty much kidnapped you from SHIELD’ thing?” Tony started gesturing wildly, pacing a tight circle as words tripped from his mouth. “Yeah, about that. Turns out the WSC wanted a scapegoat for their—for the nuke.” Tony flinched, and sucked in a huge breath before barreling on. “Soon as we could, we got you out of there. We brought you home, here, where you should have been in the first place.”   
  
Tony’s shoes squeaked as he halted abruptly, jabbing a finger in Clint's direction. “We’re a team. We decided to stick together, and that means we don’t let anyone have you, or Bruce, or Buck or  _ anyone else!” _ Tony was shouting by the time he spun away, scrubbing at his scalp.

“Steve may have waltzed in and carried you out on his Shield of Morals and Righteousness,” Tony continued, the words dripping with sarcasm, “but that left us in a morass of culpability, accountability and all sorts of other -ilities that boiled down to ‘we’re in some serious shit now.’”

Clint watched Bruce shift from foot to foot at the edge of his vision. Whatever Tony was ranting about, this was the first Bruce had heard of it, too.

“Someone had to wheedle, dance, threaten, blackmail, whatever, to get everyone out of it intact, okay? We had to  _ compromise _ .”

Tony looked wild now, his face flushed as he flailed, his chest heaving. Clint swallowed, feeling sick for an entirely new reason. Tony might be saying  _ ‘we’ _ , but it was obvious he meant himself. Steve might have been the one to haul open Clint’s not-quite-a-cell and toss him his bow, but Tony had been the one to run interference. He’d scrambled the helicarrier’s systems, hijacked the intercom, locked Fury in his office—and apparently, kept both the World Security Council and Fury from retaliating.

“Concession one: observation.” Tony put up a hand to forestall Clint’s protests. “Not actually a concession if you take into consideration we’re a paranoid bunch, and we’re somehow way too deep in each other’s pockets as is. Plus, Jarvis.” Tony gestured upwards.

“It’s kind of his job?” He cleared his throat. “For the record, nothing we ‘observed,’” Tony made air quotes with his fingers, a disgusted look crossing his features, “ever left the tower. Jarvis would occasionally bring concerns to me or Steve, but I’m not giving Fury shit after he nearly let the WSC hang you.”

Tony stopped, eyes trained on the floor as he hugged himself. “Friends, I’ve been told, keep an eye out for each other. That’s what we’ve been doing.” He chewed on his lip. “That’s all we could do.” He looked up, nearly glaring at Clint for the first time since he’d begun to pace. “We figured you were letting Buck help, but you’re not, are you.”

It wasn’t a question, but Clint still found himself opening and closing his mouth, completely wrong-footed. After a beat he said, “You know, Fury probably orchestrated that whole thing, right? Found a way to get you to spring me and keep you in his pocket, while thumbing his nose at the WSC.”

Tony shrugged.

“What did you give him, Tony?” Bruce cut in, his usual soft tone a mix of worry and frustration. "Does Steve know?"

“Someone had to bend,” Tony said. When Clint glared, Tony shook his head. “Nothing major, okay? And it's none of Steve's business, so let's keep it that way."

Smoothly, Jarvis redirected the conversation. Clint would have to do some digging on his own. He wasn’t worth letting Fury or the WSC have a hold over Tony. No matter how much Clint himself might owe or respect Fury, there was no denying the man was devious.

“My records were retroactively compiled, if that is a point of contention, Agent Barton. Sir did ask that I alert either Sir or Captain Rogers if you seemed to be struggling, but I was not instructed to keep an active eye on you. Their worry mirrored the concern you have for Master Barnes.”

Clint winced, taking the small reprimand for what it was. “Yeah,” he sighed, finally unclenching his arms from around himself. “Okay.” He shivered, flexing his hands and rolling his shoulders.

The door whooshed open as he opened his mouth to apologize. Steve skidded into the medical suite, the shield angled to cover most of his front. Cap froze, poised on the balls of his feet, eyes sweeping the room, lingering on Tony for a beat before he straightened. Once the shield came down, Clint realized Steve had slung the bow over one shoulder, an arrow clenched in his free fist.

“What’s going on?” Steve asked, bewildered.

Clint shrugged when Steve’s gaze flashed his way, letting Tony stomp over to Steve unhindered. “Next time you decide to flounce off in a cloud of self-righteous assholery, make sure you have your damn phone.” Tony huffed, snatching the arrow from Steve’s slack grip.

Tony spun on his heel and marched back, presenting the arrow to Clint with a flourish before retreating to his console.

Clint thumbed at the arrowhead, grateful beyond words to have it in his hands.

“Tony,” Bruce started, only to trail off when Tony grunted.

“You’re right,” Steve said, shuffling his feet as his attention wavered between Clint and Tony. He settled on the latter as he stood tall, nearly at attention. “Regardless of how upset I am, I need to be available. I’m sorry.” Tony didn’t look up, and Steve deflated.

He turned to Bruce and Clint. “Can someone tell me what’s going on? Jarvis only said there’d been an incident and I should down here fast.” He walked closer as he spoke, hefting the bow free and offering it to Clint.

Clint all but snatched it up, ignoring Steve’s bemused eyebrows as Bruce led him away, quietly filling him in.

Addiction had never been one of his vices, but just then he understood it in a way he hadn’t before. His hands shook as he fitted arrow to string, and pulled it back by his ear. The sheer desire to release, to let it fly across the room and shatter one of the glass vials along the wall, nearly overwhelmed him. He needed it, craved it like a man without water in a desert. 

The arrow would fly, straight and true like nothing else in his life. If he could bury it inside his target, everything else would settle into place. He only needed to let go. His arms began to ache and he licked dry lips. All at once he wished he had a quiver, enough arrows to shatter the neat rows of glass, fry the electrical equipment. He wanted to loose a volley of arrows, set off a smokescreen to cover his escape, to make them stop  _ talking _ .

He held fast, warring against himself. He had only the one arrow, and burying it in the wall wasn’t helpful.

“Clint?”

Clint reacted on instinct, pushing off with one foot to spin his body as he fell to his knees, hands sliding along the bow until he held it parallel to the floor. The enemy never expected him to go down. For one frozen moment, he held the arrow to the string by the tip of his finger. He wanted to let it slip, wanted to watch it arc across the empty space and plunge into Bruce’s chest. The urge pulsed in his veins, rolled along his tongue like honey.

And it was wrong.

Clint slumped, breathing hard as he made a point of laying both bow and arrow on the floor beside his knee.

“Didn’t mean to startle you,” Bruce said.

He rolled his shoulders, cracked his neck to either side and shook the strange feeling from his arms. “Not your fault,” Clint muttered. “Don’t sweat it.” Clint scooped the bow up, grunting as he heaved himself to his feet. He pressed a hand to his temple, and glanced over, only to let loose a volley of curses.

Bruce stood close, one hand buried in the pocket of his lab coat, the other falling back by his side. His head tilted slightly to the side as he watched Clint, rolling his lower lip between his teeth. Sapphire fire danced in his eyes, dark and deep.

“Everything alright, Hawkeye?” Reflex had Clint’s head jerking toward Steve’s voice, though his gaze remained on Bruce. “You look a little pale.”

Clint slid his foot back, easing himself farther away from Bruce. Hands flexing around his bow, he let himself flicker a glance toward Steve’s voice, only to choke on air.

Steve stood beside Bruce, one hand extended towards Clint. Concern creased his forehead. His eyes shone, lit from within by the same almost-turquoise as the walls.

“Yeah, that’s a no,” Clint said, falling back another step. 

Tony slid into the open spot on Bruce’s left. Red and gold armour gleamed at his feet, covered his arms and hands. Blue-black whisps obscured the upper half of his face. As one, they tilted their heads to gaze at him with slack, empty features.

He’d seen that face before. In the mirror. Turned out he hated seeing it more like this, so much more.

Clint’s back bumped into the wall. He swallowed, fitting the lone arrow back to the string as he tried to watch all three men at once. They advanced, penning him in. Fear clogged Clint’s throat. The wall behind him meant no one could sneak up, but it left him with nowhere to run. Not that he could outrun a Hulk, a super solider, or a flying robot. His options were, as usual, depressingly slim.

And it was all his fault. He’d done this to them. Hadn’t he?

Tilting his head back against the wall, Clint squeezed his eyes shut. In-two-three, out-two-three. Whatever this was, it was tied directly to his emotions. If he calmed himself, the illusion would go away. Like Phil kept disappearing. He counted his heartbeats, fell back into the quiet place inside his brain, until his pulse smoothed out and the itch under his skin faded.

Rolling his head upright, he opened his eyes. “Son of a  _ bitch, _ ” he spat, fingers tightening around the arrow. Blood spilled into his mouth as he bit his lip, but the sharp pain didn’t banish the images, either.

“No paltry meditation can roust me now, mortal,” Loki purred, his lilting voice rich with laughter. “I have drunk too deep of your uneasy heart.” The Aesir trailed his sickly fingers over Steve’s bicep. “And you banished your little protector.”

“What’d you do to them,” Clint snarled, holding his body loose through sheer force of will.

The alien hummed, plucking Bruce’s glasses free to peer through them himself. “I am inside you, Hawklet.” He pressed the lenses back to Bruce’s nose, and ran a sharp nail through the hair peeking out from his unbuttoned collar. “Through you, I am free,” Loki murmured, moving on to run his hands over the muted light in Tony’s chest. He prodded Tony to the side and slipped behind them. “And soon, I will be free without you.”

Loki spread his hands and smiled, a cruel, sharp flash of teeth. Tony’s boots came to life and Loki laughed. “Get him.”

Clint automatically drew back his bow, tracing Tony’s upward momentum as Bruce and Steve moved to flank him. “Buck,” he murmured. “Now would be a great time for some old fashioned damsel rescue.”

Loki’s laughter swelled. “You believe your silver prince could save you? How quaint.”

Clint loosed. The arrow pierced Tony’s left boot and sent him spinning into the ceiling. Steve lunged, and Clint ducked away. He swung out with the bow, catching Steve across the face. Steve reeled back, one hand covering his nose and Clint spun underneath his outstretched arm, taking Bruce’s legs out from underneath him in the process.

Tony tackled him from behind, sending them both to the floor. Clint cursed himself and rolled into the fall, dislodging Tony enough to drive an elbow into his face. He scrambled upright, wielding the bow like a baseball bat. Steve caught it mid swing and wrenched it free. Clint stumbled back, hands windmilling at his sides. When he recovered, he brought his fists up to guard his face. He ducked a wild punch from Bruce, landing his own uppercut easily - only to freeze when he caught sight of his own hands.

His skin crawled with frost, the faintest flush of aquamarine gathering along his veins.

Clint screamed, flinging both hands out, trying to flick the unnatural pigment free.

Bruce collided with his legs, taking him back down to the floor. Tony and Steve dove in, using their bodies to pin him. Clint could barely breathe past the panic weighing his chest down. He threw himself into the struggle, writhing and bucking under their weight. He wrenched an arm loose, buried his fist in someone’s stomach before it was recaptured. A thick, hard band clamped around his throat, curving up to control his head. Steve’s arm.

The pressure cut off the blood flow to his brain. If he thrashed, he’d only knock himself out faster. Black spots danced in his eyes as he let his body go limp. Two bodies relaxed immediately, withdrawing their weight. Clint bared his clenched teeth in triumph.

Stomach muscles burning, he hauled his legs up to his chest, kicking out viciously and using the thrust to drive his torso off the ground. Bruce took a foot solidly to the chest and flew back. He landed out of Clint’s limited sight. More importantly, he didn’t return.

Tony scrambled to throw himself back over Clint’s legs as Clint took advantage of his new position and Steve’s surprise. He drove an elbow into Steve’s midsection and curled his body, trying to slip out from under Steve’s arm.

Steve recovered too fast, and managed to maneuver himself completely behind Clint. He resettled his arm, the swells of his bicep and forearm pressed solidly against either side of his throat, pinching his airway closed.

Loki’s laughter reached new heights as Clint’s face flushed. Desperate, Clint tried to shove a hand between Steve’s inhuman strength and his neck. He twisted his body, arching his fist over his own head to cuff Steve’s ear.

“Yes, yes,” Loki crowed. “Resist. Fight! When you are weakest, I will eat you whole.”

“Eat this, bitch,” Clint gasped, spittle flying as he landed a knee to Tony’s stomach.

“Oh, I shall,” Loki responded. “Unless…”

Clint threw his legs up, caught Steve’s face between his knees. Steve yelled, jerking back enough to loosen his arm. Point to the ex-carnie, Clint found himself thinking grimly as he sucked in great lungfuls of cold air.

“Unless you’d care to join me, of course. Wasn’t life simpler, Barton? When all you needed was me?”

“Go fuck yourself,” Clint wheezed as Steve forced his body to unfold.

Bruce shouted something, lost beyond the blood pounding through his ears. Tony scrambled away, lunging for something small and white as it tumbled through the air. Clint planted his feet, tipping himself and Steve back into the floor. Steve only wrapped his legs around Clint’s trembling thighs.

“I got it, I got it, fuck, Steve! Don’t move.” Tony’s body slid into them, a move that would have made any baseball player proud. He surged to his knees as Clint redoubled his efforts against Steve’s unyielding grip.

Pain stabbed into Clint’s upper thigh and he bellowed. His muscles strained as he fought, punches landing along Steve's arms, shins. A blow caught Tony across the face and he tumbled out of view with a shout. 

“Christ, Tony,” Steve grunted. “I got him, get the hell outta here.”

Weakness spread through Clint’s body, the rapid flutter of his heart spreading whatever they’d injected him with. He could barely close his fingers as his spine melted into Steve’s chest. The world remained frozen and alien, a glacial blue, but otherwise unchanged. 

Tony popped back into Clint’s line of sight, a bruise already spreading across his cheek. He waved a hand over Clint’s face. Clint blinked, slowly, before he let himself track Tony’s hand. Tony’s  _ bare _ hand. 

He hadn’t heard Tony’s boots, hadn’t felt the hard edges of armor against his skin. Where had Tony’s armor gone?

Tony’s eyes were back to brown, and Clint stopped thinking. 

“This is probably not the best time to ask,” Tony said as he peered into Clint’s eyes, “but what, exactly, did we give him just now?”

Steve’s sigh lifted Clint’s chest easily. “Of course you didn’t know what it was before you stuck him.”   
  
Bruce shouldered Tony out of the way, resettling his glasses. He shined a light into Clint’s eyes before sitting back. 

Clint found himself staring up at the ceiling. Bruce’s eyes were normal, too.

“It was a relaxant, Steve. Just a very strong one. He should remain conscious, but his body will be unresponsive. Speech will be beyond him for a while, but he’s safe now. You can let go.”

Steve slid out from underneath him with a grunt and lowered Clint to the floor. Their feet walked away as he blinked and tested his limbs. He probably resembled a fish on dry land, twitching and jerking uselessly. 

“Okay, I think we need you to make that call, Tony.”

“No shit, Rogers,” Tony snapped. “What are we doing with him in the meantime?”

“Hulk containment unit,” Bruce said. 

Silence fell for a breath before someone clapped their hands. “Alright,” Tony said, his tone bright and cheerful and full of lies. “Jarvis, open up Big Green’s VIP room. Steve, you take him down, Jarvis’ll lock it up and keep an eye on him.”

Steve knelt, locking eyes with Clint. For a moment, his face was unbearably sad, but Clint found himself focused on the shade of blue in his eyes. Loki’s witchfire had receded from Steve too, but the rest of the world drowned.

“I’m sorry,” Steve murmured as he bundled Clint up against his chest. “I shouldn’t have…” He stood easily, cradling Clint in his arms. “We’re gonna fix this, Clint.”

Tony’s voice followed them out. “But look, that doesn’t match his eyes. See?”

Clint would have snorted, if he could’ve. The elevator spilled them directly into the specially reinforced floor. Steve carried him to the containment unit, a solid gray box built directly into the corner.  Two sets of footsteps echoed across the otherwise empty floor.

“I should’ve listened to Tony, earlier,” Steve said, settling Clint onto the lone cot. He propped his hand up on his hips and hung his head. “Can’t decide if it’s a good thing Buck’s somewhere else right now,” he murmured. His chest expanded and he blew out a huge breath before he finally looked Clint in the face. “We’re gonna figure this out,” Steve repeated, solemn as an oath.

Jarvis interrupted. “My apologies, Captain, but Sir requests your assistance. He and Doctor Banner have relocated to Sir’s labs.”

Steve shook his head. “It doesn’t feel right,” he protested. “Leaving him here like this, alone. Without Buck here, I should-”

“I may not have a body, Captain, but I assure you I will do my best to keep Agent Barton company. I will notify you as soon a he shows signs of recovery.“

The rounded lines of Steve’s shoulders broadcasted his acceptance. The door slid shut behind him with a thump, leaving Clint behind.

Loki settled onto the cot beside Clint. One hand held his head up as he trailed his nails through Clint’s damp hair. He sang, wordless and openmouthed in low, guttural tones that dropped into Clint’s skull like icicles. The steady, slow pressure of his fingers on Clint's scalp made his skin crawl.

Later, when Loki curled his long, chilled frame around Clint and nuzzled into the hollow of Clint’s shoulder, Clint gave up all pretense. He shut his eyes, tears streaming down the curves of his cheeks. C’mon, Buck, he prayed as loudly as he could. Please, please come make it stop.


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Clint starts fighting back, Steve has no idea what's going on and Phil's not getting paid enough for this nonsense.

Mario Cart did not factor into Bucky’s extensive skill set, and it was amazing.

Clint loved it, loved watching one of the most lethal men alive be repeatedly bested by a stupid racing game. But mostly, he loved how into it Buck would get.

Buck’s face would flush, skin going a mottled red under his scruff. He’d sneer, and scowl when his entire body when his car veered off the road, but break into an evil grin when he nailed Clint with a shell. But Clint’s favorite was when Bucky threw his head back and laughed, a loud bray of sound, so unlike what Bucky usually allowed himself. He was breathtaking, alive and ridiculous.

The body on his chest stretched, nuzzled further into his sternum and shattered Clint’s concentration. Loki hummed, the sound spilling into the hollow of Clint’s throat, and vibrating down his collarbones. 

No matter how he tried, he couldn’t pull the image of Bucky’s laughter back. Like Humpty Dumpty, it had fallen into too many pieces. Or Clint had, anyway. Loki’s body burned along his flank, his breath moist and hot. Clint couldn’t think past the way his skin crawled.

What the fuck was wrong with him? 

Frozen steel dug into the cleft of his chin, before trailing along the length of his jaw. It curved around the meat of his cheek and slid along the bottom ridge of his eye socket. Loki’s finger paused before shifting to press the tip of his nail along the bone. He pulled, prying the lower lid back.

Clint snapped his eyes open, glaring, before Loki decided to shove his finger into Clint’s retina.

A sneer twisted Loki’s face into something haughty and cruel. The painful, bony point of his fingertip released Clint’s eyelid, scratching its way down his cheek to press into the cleft of his chin.

Regaining control of his body seemed to be happening in fits and starts, but if Clint moved slowly, his limbs did as they were told. He pursed his lips and blew a kiss up into Loki’s face. Then, purely for the sake of being a dick, Clint called to mind Bucky’s murder-face: dead eyes, clenched jaw, thick, beetled brow and the sense that he could break your body down to the smallest joints without a twitch. Second best, he thought, as loudly as he could. No, wait — Clint remembered Phil’s anger; the way it screamed out from his blank, empty face, the way his mouth curled just so when Phil was done playing around. Maybe top ten. 

Loki’s sneer melted into a sly smile, the sting of his clawed finger dragging along his jaw before Loki took his hand away. He leaned down, long hair slipping over his bony shoulder to tickle at Clint’s clavicle. “Interesting,” he murmured, intent on Clint’s face. “You waver between them, much like a child unsure which sweet he wants to taste first.” He licked at his lips.

“And your suitors seem to be strongest in your mind when you wish to hide.” Loki hummed again, dragging his hand down Clint’s stumbled cheek in a mockery of a lover’s caress. “Tell me, Barton, why is that?” He shifted, until his mouth caught on the shell of Clint’s ear when he spoke next. “Worried you might sully them with your thoughts? Or is it that you seek to vanish into the shadows such strong men cast?”

Clint couldn’t control the burst of white hot anger that surged in his gut. His arms twitched with the need to punch the smug look off Loki’s face.Fully aware his limbs were too sluggish to follow through, Clint responded with the biggest middle finger he could project instead. He threw in some glitter for funsies. 

“I feel like that denotes a crucial lack of understanding of his character, myself.” 

Loki’s head snapped up at the new voice, his face twisting viciously. Clint shifted, just enough to angle his own head towards the open space in the center of the room. 

Phil, still in his signature black suit, seemed to take up more space than he should as he graced Clint with a tight, lipless smile. His hands were clasped before him, and he bounced a little on his toes as he shifted his gaze behind Clint, a hint of a smirk in the press of his mouth.

Clint smiled.

“You have long since ceased to be entertaining, ghost.” Loki bit out. “I ought to wipe your specter from this plane, as well.”

Phil shrugged, head tilting to one side slightly as he arched an eyebrow. He straightened and splayed his hands wide. “I’d apologize for my independence, if it weren’t for the part where, no, I don’t think I will.”

Huh, Clint found himself thinking as he blinked at the deliberate set of Phil's shoulders. He really has defected from the Death Eaters. Clint caught Phil’s sardonic expression before his face smoothed out and grimaced. Probably not the best comparison.

A possessive hand settled on Clint’s stomach as Loki regarded Phil. He tried really, really hard not to think about it, which meant he was ultra aware of how low Loki’s hand sat. Clint tried to wiggle away. The delayed response of his limbs left him cursing his housemates, as Loki absently kept him pinned. 

“Death Eaters,” Loki mused aloud. “Interesting concept. I imagine defectors were dealt with harshly.” He turned his attention back to Phil. “Is that it, then? You rediscovered your sense of self, broke away from me and now fancy yourself as his protector? In truth, I had thought you might be just be broken, considering the source material.”

Loki stretched, ignoring Phil’s shrug. He sat up, reaching out to curl a hand around the staff that materialized beside him. “You are no one’s savior, I am afraid,” Loki continued as he hauled himself to his feet. “A shadow such as yourself should be more aware of his limitations.”

As Phil backed away, drawing Loki farther from the cot, Clint’s body suffered an onslaught of pins and needles. The tips of his fingers and toes burned, his skin rippling with goosebumps. The heaviness faded from his limbs and the band around his chest loosened. 

Light flared from the gem nestled in the curve of Loki’s scepter. Clint yelped and threw a hand up to cover his eyes. His body responded too well, and he slapped himself in the face and rocked off the cot. “Son of a bitch,” he groaned, forcing himself to ignore the soreness as he shoved himself upright. 

“I do enjoy being unpredictable,” Phil remarked, drawing Clint’s attention back to the stand-off. “But I seem to distinctly recall telling you that you can't have him.” Phil looked ashen now, presumably since whatever Loki had been doing to Clint was now focused on Phil, instead. 

“Oh,” Loki murmured. “And is he yours, then?”

Clint choked on his own shout as Loki’s blade sliced through the air. He could see the trajectory Loki intended clear as day, could already see the spray as the blade loomed close to tearing Phil’s chest wide open. He’d never get there in time, but he had to try. “Phil!”

The thick, curved edge of the staff halted just before making contact with the meat of Phil’s chest. Clint wobbled and fell in a heap, his own chest heaving wildly as he flicked wide eyes between Phil’s calm smile and the rage blooming across Loki’s features. “The hell,” he wheezed.

“No, he’s not mine,” Phil said in response to Loki’s question. “But this me? Is definitely his.”

Loki pulled the staff back and snarled. He threw his weight behind the second swing, both hands fisted around the shaft of his weapon. 

Phil stopped it with the tip of his finger. He held it for a beat, his smile mocking as he watched his opponent. A single push forced both the weapon and its wielder to fall back. 

Clint staggered upright, clutching at his heart as it galloped behind the confines of his ribs. 

“There’s a saying I’m rather fond of,” Phil told the ceiling. “You’ve probably heard it, it’s fairly popular. Each person has two wolves inside; the one you feed is the one which grows.” He dropped his head, letting his gaze linger on Clint for a moment before staring Loki down. “Granted, that’s usually in reference to one’s character, but I find the principle applies here just fine.”

Loki gave a low, grating laugh but whatever he might have said was lost under the rushing in Clint’s ears. Stupid, he cursed himself. He’d known, on some level. He’d known. “It’s my fault,” he mumbled, hands trembling.

They took no notice of his breakdown. Then again, why would they? They’d both gotten what they wanted from him already.

Phil’s voice sliced through the shock buzzing along Clint’s nerves. “Technically, I was born of his misplaced guilt complex.” Clint jerked when Phil fluttered his fingers towards him. “You made me more than I would have been otherwise, but at the end of the day? There’s just too much of me in his head for me to have remained a puppet for long.”

Clint couldn’t think. What the hell did that even mean?

Blue fire flared to life, snapping Clint back to the present. Loki extended a hand, the fire twisting as it shot across the cell to envelope Clint. His knees hit the floor as ice shoved its way down his throat, clogging his lungs. Mouth gaping wide, Clint doubled over, clawing at himself in a fruitless effort to get the magic out. 

“You scavenge on the outskirts,” Loki sneered, “and you believe you can challenge me?”

A hand settled on Clint’s shoulder, molten hot in contrast to the cold numbing the rest of his flesh. Fingers dug into the hollow of his shoulder, nails biting at his skin and at all once he could breathe. The heat inched down into his breastbone, sinking thin tendrils into his aching lungs. 

“You keep ignoring his base setting,” Phil’s voice said over Clint’s head. “He’d dismantle the world barehanded for his people. People like me.”

Clint let himself fall to the side, his body curling into Phil’s leg as he spoke. Instinct drove him to reach up with one hand and grasp Phil’s wrist. The heat in his chest jolted, pulling a whine from his throat as it spread too fast. 

“You may be the parasite in his head, but I’ve lived in his heart for years. Half the guilt you try to drown him with is about me.” Another hand dropped into Clint’s hair, fisting the short, sloppy strands to pull his head up. Phil grinned down at him and Clint’s lungs stuttered for a different reason. Phil looked away, his hands urging Clint to his feet.

Clint found himself wondering what Buck would think of this. He caught the delight as it flashed across Phil’s face and hated himself a little. Buck would probably kick his emotionally stunted ass. Still so hung up on a dude who hadn’t ever even stayed the night that he’d been the battery for a whole new round of bullshit. Because this was suddenly too real, even for his patented denial methods.

Phil’s smile died and Clint found himself cut adrift as the hands anchoring him vanished. 

“I took it back,” Phil said, his voice clipped as he returned his attention to Loki. “Simple enough, really.” Phil stalked in front of Clint, his shorter frame confident and sure. “Care to see who’s better fed now?”

“What the fuck is going on,” Clint said through numb lips. 

Loki swung a third time, and Phil danced out of range, drawing the renewed fight away from Clint all over again. Phil ducked under the staff and came up close enough to ram an elbow into Loki’s ribs. The blow forced a grunt from Loki’s chest. Fast and vicious he lashed out, his blade gleaming as it tore through Phil’s jacket.

Clint found himself clenching his hands. He couldn’t just stand here and do nothing, but he didn't know what he could do. World’s best marksman meant shit when he didn’t know where to shoot.

Phil stumbled back, red hand covering the slice Loki had carved in his side. 

The stronger one is the one you feed, Clint remembered. How the hell was he supposed to shut off the I.V.? And to who? Both of them? What was he even giving them?

Loki laughed, catching Phil’s fist in the palm of one hand. Phil dropped, breaking free to sweep Loki’s legs out from underneath him.

But if he cut Phil off, he’d be alone. Clint swallowed against the jagged glass in his throat. Phil would leave. And even now, Phil was doing what he’d always done: take care of the crap Clint couldn’t handle. 

Was it even possible to cull just Loki?

Phil surged to his feet, a knife glinting in his hand moments before it ripped its way along Loki’s outstretched, glowing arm.

No, Clint realized, ashamed of himself. It didn’t matter, because Phil was dead, had been dead, would stay dead, and whatever was wrong with Clint was only prolonging something that had already happened. Bucky needed him more than he needed this pale imitation of an ex-lover. Clint had survived before Phil Coulson and he’d survive after. It was what he was good at, after all. Surviving. Making do with what he had.

It didn’t matter that Phil made more sense, that he understood Phil and where he stood. Excuses and cowardice, that’s what he’d been hiding behind. Phil was safe - But Bucky was real.

The scepter dug viciously into Phil’s shoulder. Loki yanked it free, crowing as Phil fell to his knees, gasping. 

“Your words ring hollow, my friend,” Loki taunted, lashing out again. This time, the blade scored down Phil’s spine and wrenched a scream free. 

Cheesy as it sounded, even in his own head, it was past time for Clint to start feeding his own damn self. He’d do what he needed to do, and to hell with the consequences. At the end of the day, the disaster in his head wasn’t important. Getting to see Bucky laugh, though? 

Clint moved before he’s had time to process his thoughts. The staff felt slick under his hands, and burned his skin. He tightened his grip. With a yank, he forced Loki off balance enough to shove him away from Phil. 

“There you are, Barton,” Phil croaked, patting at Clint’s calf. “Took you long enough.”

“Yeah, well. Thought you needed the practice.”

“I am too powerful to be locked away by a wish, boy,” Loki shouted over him, wresting control of his weapon back. “I am inside you, fool.”

Loki’s form began to shine, a soft white-blue glow tracing the lines of his body. Muscle memory meant Clint’s hand reached over his shoulder for an arrow he didn’t have before he realized this wasn’t that type of fight. Clint froze, hand mid-reach.

He didn’t know what to fucking do, he didn’t have a weapon, this was all in his head, how was he supposed to shut out his own mind?

He wasn’t.

Clint straightened, pulling away from Phil. “You wanna see what’s in my head, bro? Okay, cool. We can play that game.” He shut his eyes, ignoring the roil in his gut and the burn in his joints. 

Life hadn’t ever been kind to Clinton Francis Barton. No, life had been a series of shitty moments, broken up by even worse moments, with a lot of fucking quiet. Life was pain, and getting up anyway. It was being too stupid, too stubborn to quit. 

He hadn’t let the rest of the world win, yet. He wasn’t gonna start now. 

Clint knew silence, knew the weight and shape of all its forms more intimately than he knew his own hands. Clint had long ago taken that silence into his fucking soul. And Loki? Loki had flinched at the quiet, had talked too loudly or too fast to fill the empty spaces around him. Invasion-Loki had prodded his cattle to ramble while they worked, used the words to keep himself grounded. 

Clint knew those signs, knew what it meant to be unable to bear the stretches of dead air.

He gathered all of his silence, all of the isolation and cold, barren spaces that lived in his head. He round up all of the broken moments, the hiding, the desperation, the need to know he was alive - all of it, in a messy bundle of not okay and shoved it deep into the jagged spot in his head that tasted like Loki.

“Clint?”

It came from too close, from a voice he shouldn’t be hearing. He jerked, losing his balance as his eyes flew wide and he tried to turn too fast.

“Woah,” Steve said, startled as he caught Clint. “Woah, hey, okay, I’ve got you, breathe.” He lowered Clint to the floor, dropping into a crouch with a hand pressed to either side of Clint’s face. 

Clint struggled, gasping, as he let his gaze dart around the empty room as best he could while Steve held him. He couldn’t see Loki. Or Phil. 

“Look at me,” Steve commanded, his face creased into tight, worried lines. “Whatever else is going on, focus on me.” When Clint obeyed, Steve graced him with a quick smile. “Good. Breathe with me, okay?” One hand abandoned his face to rest on his chest, like Clint needed a reminder of where his breathing happened. “In and out, there we go, just like this.”

Steve’s voice faded into the background as Clint wrestled his body back under control. Loki had vanished, taking even the sensation of being watched with him. It left him unbalanced.

“Okay now?” Steve asked, drawing Clint’s attention back to him.

Clint let himself flop back onto the cold floor. “Yeah,” he answered. “I’m okay now.”

“Glad to hear it,” Steve said, sounding entirely too dry. “But Bruce says that shot should’ve worn off much earlier, and Jarvis said you were exhibiting signs of distress again. So.” He studied Clint’s face for a moment, his eyebrows drawn tight. “What happened?” 

“No idea, man.”

Clint sighed when Steve’s face twitched into a frown. “Voldemort is a dick and my head might be Tom Riddle’s diary?” He shoved himself up into a seated position, scrubbing at his face. “I think that makes Phil Bellatrix?” Clint scrunched his face up and squinted into the distance. “I mean, originally? With the whole blind, violent follower thing.”

Steve’s face cycled through too many expressions to parse as Clint continued. “But then Bellatrix turned out to actually be Dumbledore. Which makes me into the Boy-Who-Lived, so this is a shitty metaphor.” He stood, catching movement out of the corner of his eye. 

Phil leaned against the cot, his gaze steady on Clint. “Bellatrix, Barton? Really? That’s what we’re going with?”

Clint shrugged. “Dunno what that makes Buck, though.” He had to clear the lump from his throat at the smirk the flashed across Phil’s features. “Eh, he can give the ferret the redemption arc J.K. didn’t.”

Phil gave an exaggerated sigh and shook his head. Clint found himself grinning at him. 

“What the fuck does that mean, Clint?” Steve’s exasperation cut across Clint’s pleasure at Phil’s continued presence. 

“Yeah, no,” Clint said, scratching at his chin. “I know you saw those movies because I was there when you instigated that house arguement between Nat, Tony and Rhodey.

“You can’t keep me,” Phil said, soft and sad. “You know that, right?”

Clint couldn’t stop his flinch, even as he found himself nodding.

Steve sighed, pinching his eyes shut for a moment. “I’m aware. You’re as bad as Tony with the trivializing and the— stupid bullshit, like no one will notice you’re just runnin’ your damn mouth. This isn’t a goddamn joke, so stop trying to turn it into one.” He fixed Clint with a hard glare. “Cut the crap, Barton, and tell me what’s going on.”

“Wasn’t trying to,” Clint mumbled, distracted by the way Phil had taken to pacing. “Nothing about this shit is funny.” 

Like everything else about him, Phil’s steps were precise— each one the same length as all the others. Controlled. Bucky didn’t walk like that. Happy Bucky meant loose limbs and a sway in his hips. Unhappy Bucky translated to tight arms and heavy steps that were all thigh muscle, a beautifully terrifying murder-strut. Watching Phil’s deliberate movements bothered him, for reasons he couldn’t even begin to sift through just then. 

“Didn’t they fill you in earlier?” Clint asked, turning away before Phil could face him again.

“I got the basics.”

“Yeah, okay.” Clint swallowed. “Not saying his name again. Thor’s brother. The other, uh. Person?” He found himself hesitating, gnawing on the inside of his lip.

Steve caught his eye and raised his eyebrows.

“It’s Coulson. Phil Coulson.”

Steve sat abruptly. “Coulson.”

“Uh, yeah. Him and Lo— Voldemort have been, y’know.” Clint circled his hand near his temple. “Hanging out.”

“Hanging out,” Steve repeated.

“Yes? I mean. It started out with just Voldemort being crazy and creepy, right, and then he used Phil’s face sometimes, I think just to screw with me more. But then Phil figured out how to take control? Because he’s been helping me. I think.”

“Helping—” Steve said, muffled as he dragged a hand down his face. “Okay.” He took a deep breath, eyes closed before he blew it out and snapped his gaze to Clint’s face.

Clint tried a weak smile.

“Everything else aside, you’re tellin’ me you’ve had Loki in your head, for over a year and you didn’t think to say anything?”

Hands squeezed Clint’s shoulders, pinning him in place as he glared at Steve. “Who the fuck,” he snarled, hands fisted “was I gonna tell? You? Fury? So I could end up one of SHIELD’s fucking experiments?” He shoved Phil’s grip off and scrambled to his feet, trembling. “Or get stuck in a fucking padded room because I’m batshit crazy? Yeah, totally on my to-do list.”

“That’s not—”

“Fuck you, that is exactly what would have happened on the random chance I’m still magically possessed, instead of just fucking nuts.”

Steve watched him for a moment, his face going soft and sad. “You don’t really trust us much, do you?” He shook his head. “We didn’t let the WSC have you, Clint. We won’t let anyone else take you, either.”

All at once Clint felt the strength leave him, and he tumbled his way back onto the cot. He dropped his head into his hands, elbows propped up on his knees. “What if I am just nuts, though? What if I’m just totally broken now?” He felt detached, hearing his voice finally say it all aloud. “What if this is my, like, penance. My sentence, for all the horrible shit I let him do. I gave him everything he needed, Steve, and he’ll never leave my head. He killed so many people and it’s all ‘cause he had me.”

A body sank down on either side of him, and Clint found himself too scared to look. Shoulders pressed into his own, anchoring his body in place. A hand stroked down the back of his neck, and another clasped his forearm. 

Once the words started, Clint lost all control over them. They fell from his mouth, hurried and unsteady, until it felt like they were backed up in his throat, too many things trying to come out at once. “I don’t even know if it’s just some seriously fucked PTSD, or if he’s still in me, okay, I can’t even trust my own head anymore. And God, Bucky.” He groaned. “You were right, and I can’t— I am using him. I am, because I need him around. When he’s there, all this shit is far away and he makes it not so bad. I can focus on him instead of this, because he’s my freaking safe zone. But then he goes away and I fall to shit, every goddamn time, and I’m just getting worse and worse and I still—”

Steve gently pulled his hands away from his face. “It’s not your fault,” he murmured, worry bunching up his eyebrows. “Loki entered your mind and body without permission. He took from you and used you, because he wanted to. You didn’t do those things, Clint. He did them to you.” Steve hooked one corner of his mouth up in a mockery of a smile. “There’s a word for that, and it isn’t pretty.”

“Rape,” Phil breathed, molding his body to Clint’s side.

Clint broke.

Steve tucked him in close as Clint’s frame shook with the force of his sobs. He found himself grateful for the constant stream of quiet reassurances both men whispered against him as he cried.

“It’s okay to not be okay,” Phil murmured. “You endured yet another awful, traumatic experience. There is no shame in needing time to recover. You’re so strong, Clint, but even the strongest still need help.”

“I got you,” Steve chanted, “I got you, I’m here, we’ll figure it out, I got you.”

Eventually, Clint subsided into the occasional hiccup and pulled away. He scrubbed his face with the hem of his shirt and avoided Steve’s gaze.

“You’re wrong, you know,” Steve started, his voice too loud after the hush of Clint’s breakdown. Clint felt Steve’s flinch and almost smiled as how he modulated his voice to a softer tone. “I was wrong, too.”

Clint grunted.

“What you said, about Buck being your safe zone? Pretty sure everyone in the tower knows what it’s like to be used, and that’s not it. You’re not hiding behind him, either. You trust him, more than anyone else. More than Natasha.”

Steve smiled at the inadvertent noise of protest Clint made. “Not saying you don’t love Nat, because I’ve seen you two together. She’s your sister, but Buck is something else, and that’s okay. He makes you feel safe, right? Even when he’s not right next to you, you know he’s got your six. The demons can’t get ahold of you as easy, ‘cause he takes up so much space in your head.” It was Steve’s turn to huff. “He makes you smile, right?”

Clint watched Steve’s face flush out of the edge of his eye, confused. “Yeah. Yeah, he does.”

“He makes you laugh, makes you feel like you stand taller, like you’re a stronger, better man, just because that’s what he deserves. Like you can take on the world, but you won't have to do it alone, because he’ll be right there with you.”

This time Clint could only nod.

“That ain’t using him, Clint, and you know it. That’s loving him.”

Clint looked away. The move brought Phil back into his line of sight, and Clint couldn’t look away from the way Phil smiled, and smiled, and smiled.

“You know you do,” Phil remarked. “You’re not as dumb as you pretend.”

“I know,” Steve continued, oblivious to Phil’s interjection. “Because that’s how—how Tony makes me feel.” He cleared his throat. “And Buck talks about you like that, like you’re the reason the stars are in the sky.” The cot creaked as Steve fidgeted. “That’s love.”

Clint dropped his head to stare at the floor. There was no way he was having a heart-to-heart with Steve Rogers, of all people. The odds of Clint being strapped to a bed and drooling his way through a sedative suddenly skyrocketed. He said as much out loud.

“You’re not in a psychiatric ward,” Steve sigh, exasperated all over again.

“Actually, he could be, you never know,” Tony said, hovering in the doorway with his hands shoved in his pockets. He tilted his head back, addressing the rest of his rapid fire commentary towards the ceiling. “If we’re all part of his delusions than we’d think we were real, because he thinks we’re real. Haven’t you ever watched Buffy? Wait, don’t answer that.”

“How long have you been there,” Steve squeaked. Clint huffed, too wrung out to respond to Tony’s ramble, or Steve’s mortification.

“Time is relative, O Captain, my Captain.”

“Totally heard you,” Clint rasped out, digging the heels of his hands into his eyes. Buck would be rolling on his back, howling with laughter by now. All Clint could do was count his breaths.

“Not the point,” Tony shot back over Steve’s distressed whine. “Point is, I need you down in the lab, arrow-boy. We think we’ve figured out how to scan for residual traces of Loki’s magic.”

That sobered Clint immediately. He straightened, ignoring the exhaustion creeping into his bones. “But what if it’s not?” 

Phil sighed and levered himself up from the cot as Tony snorted. He flicked a hand out, and an image flared to life. In it, Clint stood, back to the wall, his arrow aimed at the empty ceiling in Medical. The picture turned out to be a video, and Clint watched as the arrow launched itself skyward, watched as Steve shouted for Tony and Bruce to take cover, watched as they didn’t listen. “Anything about this look normal to you?”

Clint stared at his own face, bone white with eyes that glowed a deep sapphire, and shook his head. “No. No, it really doesn’t.”

“Well,” Tony said, dry as a desert. “I’m pretty sure you can’t change your eye color no matter how touched in the head you might be, so, magical tampering just became the name of the game.”


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bucky's not going down without a fight.

Metal screamed as Bucky renewed his battle against the restraints, his body tensed and trembling, straining viciously under the straps. His world narrowed down to Goon, stumbling back from Bucky and his gnashing teeth, his clawed hands. The chair rattled, rocking and jerking with Bucky’s determination to rend the bastard limb from limb, grind his bones down to ashes with his bare hands and scatter them to the winds. Fury boiled inside his veins, spilled from his mouth in a wordless, violent roar.

Goon straightened, and pulled something from his left pocket just as the band covering Bucky’s left wrist screeched and groaned. For the first time, the cruel, smug smile fell from Goon’s face, leaving him wide eyed and gaping as Bucky wrenched his wrist free from the broken clamp. “Son of a _bitch—”_

Bucky lurched to the right, feeling the tendons in his neck as they bulged with the force of his movements. He bellowed as he fought to free the rest of his prosthetic left arm, ignoring how the flesh fused to his false shoulder screamed in response.

Twin spikes burrowed into his chest, each a sharp, swift punch that knocked his breath free in a _whoosh_ of air. In the split second between heartbeats, Bucky traced the thin black lines back to the box in Goon’s hand. Goon’s smile was back, a hateful, vicious slash across his face. Pain exploded from the tiny points over his sternum, yellow and red fireworks taking over his vision, slamming his skull back as his body bowed. The lightning bolt struck him over and over, consuming his body whole, leaving him a twitching, useless heap. Sheer luck prevented him from biting his tongue off; his jaw had slammed shut at the first touch and was clenched as tightly as the rest of him.

It went on, and on, and on. It held his lungs captive, left his heart to stutter somewhere behind his navel. His eyes rolled back in his head, and drool spilled over his chin.

And then it stopped. Bucky collapsed, limbs still spasming, as he took great, broken gulps of air. His pulse fluttered wildly, seeming to thump everywhere but his chest.

“You’re nothing without us, kid,” Goon said, sounding miles away. “Time you remembered that. Time you remembered who the fuck’s in _charge.”_

Electricity burst into his chest, stronger than before. It burned him from the inside out, left wisps of smoke curling along his frame, crackled down his robotic arm as it tried to curl into itself. Goon’s voice blended into the shrill ringing in his ears. He couldn’t think, couldn’t breathe. Blood filled his mouth as his head jerked, knocking his jaw loose enough for teeth to catch the edge of his tongue.

The electric pulses took over his senses, and left his brain too frazzled to process the way the heavy bands cut into his skin as his body bucked beneath them. Nothing existed past the vibrating energy holding him captive.

Air rushed back into his abused lungs, in tiny stuttering gasps as the voltage eased and faded. Residual shocks shuddered through his body, each spasm setting off new quakes. Sounds assaulted him, grinding their way past his eardrums to the puddle of nerves in his skull; it sucked them in and drowned them before Bucky could even begin to recognize them.

“Shut up, Doc, he’ll be easier— no, you fuckin’ tool, _in_ the chair.”

“And the broken wrist clamp?”

“Worried the big bad Asset’s gonna get you? Duct tape it for all I care, just get this thing moving already.”

* * *

 

Bucky stood outside the doorway, shifting his weight from foot to foot as he absently ran his fingertips over the complicated plates of his metal shoulder. Eyes trained on the floor, shoulders hunched, he let out a derisive snort. This was a new low, even for him. He was a goddamn _coward_ , hovering on the threshold to the communal living room, the heavy swooping in his stomach nearly hauling his scarce lunch back up.

But the silence was too loud today, smothering him until he thought he’d snap and trash the place just for the noise. At least all the shouting meant he wasn’t alone.

“Pathetic, Barnes,” he mumbled, letting his hair fall forward to cover his face. “Fuckin’ pathetic.”

“— my best, but you’ve got to —”

A second man sliced clean across Steve’s achingly familiar voice. “I don’t _got_ to do anything, bro, that’s where you’re wrong. I sure as hell didn't ask you to lay down on the line for me, so cut the martyring crap already. You’re not my goddamn savior.”

“Clint —”

“I don’t care what the fuck they want from me, or what any of you think about me. Hawkeye’s _done,_ man _._ Done _._ ”

“That’s not what I meant.”

“Bull-fucking-shit. I’m out. I paid my debts, Fury doesn’t own me, and neither do you.” Clint’s voice was pure venom as he snarled back. “ _No one_ is gonna go poking through my head ever again, for _any_ reason. Consider this my resignation, effective now, because fuck you, that’s why. I’m done.”

Heavy, swift steps made their way across the room. A man burst from the living room, tall and blond and haggard looking, his face flushed cherry red. Bucky’d seen him a few times since that first night, but never so close. Clint stumbled and paused, blinking at Bucky for a second before slapping a sneer across his features. “Fuck you lookin’ at?” Not bothering to wait for a reply, Clint barreled away, spine straight and his hands fisted and shaking at his sides.

Bucky watched until Clint rounded a corner and disappeared from view, running his rant back through his head.

“Buck?” Steve’s soft, tired voice spooked him, something Steve didn’t miss from the guilty expression Bucky met when he spun around. “You okay?”

He shrugged. Clint’s words seemed to twist and burrow into his gut

“Sorry about…” Steve made a face, and gestured in the general direction Clint had stormed off. “That. I’ve been trying to catch him — he needs — well.” One broad palm dragged down Steve’s face. “A lot, honestly. If he would just _listen_ —”

Surprising himself, Bucky interrupted. “You can’t bash at people ‘til their problems go away, and you know it, Stevie. Didn’t work when we were kids, won’t work now.”

Steve stared at him, lips parted. As Bucky jerked his shoulders up by his ears, Steve stepped forward and tugged him into a bone-crushing hug. “You’re right,” he muttered in a thick voice. “Doesn’t mean I don’t wish I could, or that I won’t try.”

Tucking his face into Steve’s neck, Bucky croaked, “Can’t help someone who don’t want it yet.”

Air rattled in Steve’s chest as he clutched Bucky closer before stepping back and clasping both hands over Bucky’s shoulders. He squeezed and gave Bucky a wobbly smile. “No, I guess I can’t. I’ll just have to wait for him to come to me, won’t I?”

Buck swallowed and offered his own weak smile. “Might be a while, fella seems stubborn.”

“Yeah he is,” Steve said, clearing his throat. “You two would get along swell, if you ever got around to talking.”

“Nice, Rogers. Real smooth.” Bucky responded, droll.

Steve flushed pink and let Bucky go. “Wanna watch the next thing on my list? Tony says _Rocky Horror Show_ doesn’t actually have anything to do with horror, so…?”

Bucky nodded, but Clint’s wrecked face wouldn’t leave his thoughts.

* * *

 

The chair made awful squealing sounds as it was manhandled from the room. Goon and Lab Coat’s displeasure wove in and out of the mess left in Bucky’s skull. Every so often, Goon would trigger the taser, keeping Bucky dazed and twitching.

Much like before, Bucky’s drifting mind kept latching onto Clint, turning into a stuttering slideshow, a jigsaw puzzle his mind kept trying to fit together properly. All the times he shied away from Bucky, sought Bucky out, teased Bucky out of hiding, snapped and snarled at Steve, shrugged off a nightmare, and more parading around and around as Bucky grasped at empty space.

As the chair settled, and Bucky’s mind cleared, the pieces began to settle into a recognizable shape. One Bucky should have seen much earlier.

Clint wasn’t better, hadn’t ever been ‘better’. Clint Barton was a fucking walking disaster zone, and doing his damnedest to hide it. Bent over backwards to support Bucky, but sidestepped or outright fought Steve’s attempts to do the same for himself.

Clint thought he deserved to suffer, alone.

“Jesus Christ, how d’you shut him up?”

Was Bucky his penance? Some kind of restitution for the things he’d endured? Did he use Bucky’s problems as an excuse to just ignore his own?

_Steve’s mouth was thin, his eyes wet as he looked up at Bucky from the couch, hands knotted around themselves, dangling between his knees. “I just wanted to thank you,” he said, ducking his head with a huff. “You — you’ve been able to — he won’t let us, like he lets you. Christ, I’ve been worried sick, I mean, what if we, if I, made the wrong call?_

_“What?” Bucky asked, completely flummoxed. Steve dug the heels of his hands into his eyes and Bucky really needed him to not start crying on top of this, whatever the hell ‘this’ was. He wouldn’t be able to handle it, not today. Not when the ice was so close._

_“He smiled.” Steve looked up and caught Bucky’s eyes. “You know, I’ve never seen that before? He smiled today. At you. So, just. Thanks. Okay?”_

_“Okay,” Bucky responded, slowly. “You’re... welcome?”_

The memory overtook him, blocking out the metallic taste in his mouth for a moment as Steve’s joy finally made sense. From the outside, Clint and Bucky were a united front, a team, pulling one another up from their mutual hellhole, supporting and understanding one another as no one else could.

“I’m gonna tape his mouth shut. He’s not even making sense, now. How far along are you anyway? Shouldn’t you be better at this?”

“Seventy percent. And no, I shouldn’t be, considering this is _not my job.”_

“Alright, alright, don’t be such a bitch about it, Doc.”

But that hadn’t been the case, not really. No matter how Bucky tried. Which meant there wasn’t any way Clint had been trying to squeeze Bucky into the spaces Phil’s death left. He wouldn't have been so selfless, so gentle, with Bucky if he was only a placeholder.

Clint just… didn’t think he mattered. Didn’t think he was worth the effort, too consumed with survivor’s guilt, too full of self-loathing to realize he deserved the same care he offered Bucky.

A hard blow to his cheek snapped his head to the side, the loud crack of flesh on flesh echoing in his head. “I swear to God, if you keep mumbling, I'm going to to break your jaw.”

Bucky opened his eyes, staring off in space as they focused in the brightness. The slap pulled him from his messy thoughts, but didn’t dissipate the taffy mucking up his brain cells. Fine tremors wracked his body, leaving him shaking from head to foot. Stronger pulses yanked at his fingers and toes, the digits curling in unpredictably. Goon must have hit him with enough juice to kill a normal man; the palpitations of his heart remained unsteady, the beat wavering between too slow and galloping to make up the missed beats.

But his body remained his. That was a significant improvement already.

Shoving all thoughts of Clint away, Bucky let his gaze roam over the crowded room as he rolled his head back towards Goon. Cement flooring led to bare, gray walls, broken by a thick metal door. Beyond Goon, Lab Coat scurried from place to place, leaning down to peer at various screens, his hands fluttering over a huge display of dials, toggles and god only knew what else.

A quick glance showed that he was still stuck in the same chair. They’d replaced the broken band with metallic tape, and he snorted. The remaining bands were already stressed, and they’d tapped his wrist so his palm was facing up. His mouth twitched in a brief smile.

Settling his gaze back on Goon, Bucky schooled his face, tilting his head slightly and arching his eyebrows over his emptiest expression. Goon smirked back, leaning back against the side of some console, holographic images flickering in and out beside him as he crossed his arms.

“Welcome back, Soldier.” He flicked his eyes above Bucky’s head. When he dropped his gaze back, Bucky refused to react. “Your old friend is going to be so happy to see you again.”

Gritting his jaw, Bucky refused to give the man the satisfaction of looking up. He knew what he would see — the monstrous, steel contraption which had stolen his soul time and time again, hovering above his head, primed and ready to drop down around his temples and shred him one more time.

Instead, he stared Goon down, all too aware of the weakness in his body. His mind may as well have been cotton, his tongue heavy and leaden behind his teeth. The arrhythmia in his heart was reflected in the short, uneven breaths he struggled to take, and the constant jerking of his muscles left him sore and aching all over. Exhaustion hung on him, but he would not lay down until Goon’s blood decorated the walls.

They had made a promise, him and Clint. There wasn’t any way in hell he was breaking it like this.

“Why so solemn, kid?” Goon asked, spreading his hands. “Doc here’ll get this puppy up and running soon, and then,” he made a noise, a soft _puff_ , flicking his fingers out from his palms, “all your troubles fall away like magic.” Goon chuckled to himself, pulling the long, curved knife from its sheath. Settling himself more firmly against the heavy desk, he crossed his ankles and dug the tip of the blade under his thumb nail. “Considering how goddamn whiny you are, I don’t see what the problem is.”

“Do you ever,” Bucky grated out, pausing between words to take little breaths, “shut the hell up?”

Goon snorted. “Lookit that, it speaks! And not about his fucking boyfriend, hallelujah." Pointing at Bucky with the knife he said, “I gotta say, man, I am going to enjoy tracking that bastard down,” before moving to the next fingernail.

Several things happened all at once. The tape haphazardly keeping his bionic wrist in place tore as easily as wet paper. Goon’s eyes snapped up at the sound, and he sneered, leveling the blade towards Bucky’s throat. “Don’t even —” a muffled _boom_ reverberated through the room, cutting off Goon’s snarl and rattling the huge array of electronics under Lab Coat’s fingers.

“What the fuck,” Goon shouted, lurching upright, the knife pointed out to the side as he splayed his arms out for balance. Lab Coat began swearing at the dials, his hands clattering over the knobs and dials.

“Please be Hawkeye making a goddamn mess,” Bucky muttered, letting his head drop down. He gave his head a hard shake, hoping to clear the cobwebs faster. One hard gasp and his breathing settled into a steady rhythm.

“Ninety-five percent,” Lab Coat called out, sounding harried and manic. “Just keep him in the damn chair for another three minutes.”

“Make it faster!” Goon shot back, pulling the gun from his shoulder holster with one hand as he stalked around the chair. The thick door crashed open, slamming into the wall and bouncing back as a black and red blur slid in the room. Goon lost no time, squeezing off several rounds. He dropped to his knees, ducking down to use Bucky as cover when the black-clad body returned fire.

Rather than wait for the drama to resolve, Bucky immediately leaned to the right, putting all of his strength behind forcing his left arm up. The metal bands screeched, giving in tiny increments as Goon swore and scrabbled at Bucky’s shoulder, trying to force him back into his seat. With a guttural shout, both restraints snapped. Bucky let the pressure from Goon’s hands help swing his upper body around as he threw out his free fist. The blow was sloppy and weak, but Goon sprawled back on his ass anyway.  
  
Fierce satisfaction bloomed in Bucky’s chest as Goon’s face morphed into fear for the first time.   
  
Digging his fingertips under the band spanning his human bicep, Bucky glanced back towards the door. Black Widow stood framed in the doorway, all sleek midnight and crimson. She had fought her way in: a bruise blossomed high on one cheekbone, blood covered the opposite eyebrow and scuff marks graced each knee of the bodysuit. Jade eyes settled on Bucky, and she gave a shark’s smile. “Heard there was a damsel in distress,” she drawled in her husky, taunting voice.

“I got it covered,” Bucky responded, pleased his voice had lost the syrupy edge as he crushed the last clasp holding his right arm hostage.

The idiot beside the chair chose that moment to surge to his feet and shove the muzzle of his weapon into Bucky’s temple. “Put down the gun, little girl. You don’t wanna play this game.”

Bucky chuckled, watching Nat out of the corner of his eye. Goon was standing instead of crouching, which exposed his upper chest and head. Widow didn’t need a gun to take him out. Then again, Widow didn’t need to drop him at all. Goon was treating Bucky like a civilian — assuming the weight of the gun would freeze him up and keep him quiet, and pliant.

Swiftly, Bucky turned, forcing the barrel skyward with one hand as he yanked the man’s knife free with the other. The gun went off as Goon reflexively squeezed the trigger, exploding an overhead light. Sparks rained down and Bucky knocked the gun from his hands. It clattered to the floor. The knife found a new home in Goon’s gut, right over his hip.

Goon staggered back, his hands instinctively covering the wound as he swayed on his feet. Bucky bent at the waist, using both hands to pry off the cuffs pinning his legs to the chair. Widow took advantage of his position to let of three shots in quick succession. Goon dropped to his knees, blood running down his chin as he sagged backwards to the floor.

Standing for the first time in what felt like months, Bucky’s legs nearly gave out. The tremors were fading, but left him weak and unbalanced. He scooped up Goon’s weapon, prodding the body with his bare toe.

“Be glad she killed you, asshole,” he muttered. “You threatened Clint. I’da taken my fucking time.” For no other reason than it made him feel better, Bucky put another bullet between Goon’s eyes. He had to resist the urge to empty the clip into his face and turned to find the doctor.

Lab Coat stood before his console, legs spread, both hands clenched tight around the butt of a tiny gun. It wavered in the air between Bucky and Natasha, following Lab Coat’s wild eyes. Seeing the gun surprised Bucky more than Natasha’s entrance.

“No,” Lab Coat bellowed. “ _No,_ this is _not_ how this is supposed to go! I will not let you _ruin_ everything I’ve worked for!”

Bucky eased forward a few steps, but had to pause, hands spread out to his sides as Lab Coat focused on him.  
  
“The serum alone is a medical goldmine, capable of eradicating cancer or— don't move!” The muzzle swung towards Natasha as she approached the downed operative. She stopped moving, but stared at Lab Coat impassively. Bucky’s mouth twitched when he noticed that Lab Coat swallowed, his eyes wide.   
  
After a beat, Natasha shrugged. “Hydra doesn’t do charity.”

Bucky managed to close the distance while Lab Coat spluttered at Natasha. Too late, he noticed Bucky’s approach and tried to swing his weapon back towards him. Sweeping the weapon aside with his left hand, Bucky delivered a blow to the underside Lab Coat’s chin with the open palm of his right. Lab Coat lifted onto his toes from the force of the strike and fell heavily against the control panel. Bucky easily scooped the weapon from his loose fingers. Once the safety was on, Bucky tucked it into the waistband of his boxer-briefs.

“How many people have access to your research?” Bucky asked. “Where are the samples you took from me?”  
  
“I won’t —” started Lab Coat, his voice higher than normal, but determined.   
  
Bucky shot him in the thigh, and he screamed, crumbling into himself, clutching at his leg.   
  
“I ain’t askin’ again, fella. Where is it. Who can get at it.”   
  
Two more shots rang across the room, making Lab Coat cry out and cringe. Bucky whirled, ready to gun down another goon and pulled up short. Nat used the muzzle of her weapon to gesture towards the ceiling. “Cameras,” she said.   
  
He scowled at her, turning back to his target. Lab Coat didn’t look at him, red hands clasped tight to his wound, a low, steady murmur of “I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” escaping him. Bucky rapped his skull none too gently and he yelped, jerking away.   
  
“Digital! All of my work, my— everything, it’s in the system. My superiors demanded updates. Everything is, is there.” He pointed with his chin towards the monitors across the room.   
  
“And the samples?”   
  
Lab Coat closed his eyes, defeat in the slump of his shoulders. “Some were used. Others remain in cold storage. Other than that, I don’t know.”   
  
Bucky tilted his head at him for a moment. Rapidly, he leveled his weapon at the man’s head and pulled the trigger. The amount of time he’d put into daydreaming about killing him, and now he couldn’t even be bothered to feel satisfied. He just wanted to go home, to Clint’s sleepy scowl.

Clint better be okay, wherever he was in this mess. It’d be just like him to end up hospitalized while mounting a rescue.

“I released one of Tony’s viruses. It should wipe this entire mainframe and send copies back to Jarvis.”   
  
He grunted in response, dropping into a crouch to rifle through Lab Coat’s pockets. Unsurprisingly, he had little of interest, just random bits and pieces of paper, clips and too many pens.   
  
“You couldn’t ask how they snatched you before you shot him?”   
  
“Pretty sure he wouldn’t’ve known, Nat. You shoulda tried to ask the other asshole before _you_ shot _him_.” Bucky pulled out a wallet from the man’s slacks, poking through the various credit cards and I.D.s. He paused as he dislodged a worn, old photo, gently pulling it free.

A beautiful little girl beamed up at him, showcasing her missing bottom tooth. She had Lab Coat’s dark almond eyes, but with a button nose, and a dimple sitting in the center of her right cheek. Her hair fell in a cascade of tight braids, each tipped with a bright plastic flower. They matched the flowers on her shirt. Bracers encased her skinny legs from thigh to calf and she leaned heavily on a pair of forearm crutches.

The back read, “I love you, Daddy!” in a child’s scrawl.

Bucky ran a shaking finger over her flushed cheeks, rolling his lips between his teeth.

“We were set up, Winter,” Natasha continued as if he hadn’t spoken. “I, for one, want to know who handed us over.”

Swallowing hard, Bucky slid the photo into the man’s breast pocket, and dropped the wallet beside him. Turning away, Bucky busied himself checking the magazines on each weapon as he made his way over to Natasha. “We’ll figure it out,” Bucky held the smaller gun out, testing his aim, “They’re gonna regret it.” His hands weren’t steady yet, but he’d do fine.

He had to. Everything he’d said under the influence, all those things about Clint and whatever else had spilled right out of his head — all on camera. This Goon might be dead, but Bucky wasn’t breaking out only to have Hydra go after Steve and Clint.

He’d kill every person in the building if he had to.

She sighed, looking him over once he drew even with her. “At least let me know you’re okay. You’ve been in here for days, and you’re in your underwear—”  
  
“Wait, days?” Bucky cut in, startled. He’d assumed the drugging and lack of sunlight had screwed up his sense of time. He tucked the smaller weapon back in his waistband, safety on.   
  
She blinked at him, a slight frown crossing her features. “It’s almost Thursday. You’ve been here since Tuesday afternoon.” Her tone gentled. “What happened? You keep staring off into space. What were they doing?”

“Huh,” he said. That actually wasn’t as bad as he had thought. “So, a day.”

“Winter.”

“You poked through their files, Widow, don’t play dumb. They wanted Steve, they wanted the serum— I was a test run.” He shrugged, keeping his face as impassive as he could. “Added bonus, their pet assassin could give them all sorts of information about the Avengers.”  
  
“I take it that went well?”   
  
Bucky spread one hand out in a broad sweep, to indicate the room. “So well they figured they’d take any loss of information caused by the wipe,” he remarked, voice dark and dangerous.   
  
When she didn’t respond, Bucky caught her eye. “I’m fine, Nat. I can wait ‘til we’re home before I lose my shit. Not my first rodeo.”

Natasha gave a sharp nod and the concern fell away from her face. She shoved a black bundle into his hands. “Put some clothes on. We’ll finish this later.”

Confused, Bucky stared at the black pants and boots in his hands, a third gun laid out on top, before he realized where she’d gotten them. Sure enough, when he turned, Goon lay in a graceless, bloody heap, without pants or boots. He shoved himself into them with a grimace. At least he could holster the extra weapon properly, instead of praying it didn’t accidentally shoot a new hole in his ass. As an afterthought, Bucky stormed over and snatched the knife from Goon’s torso, wiping it off on the body’s shirt before stuffing it back into its sheath on his leg.

Being shirtless was annoying, but it wasn’t like the thin cotton would be any kind of protection in the first place.

As Nat stalked back to the door, Bucky took a deep breath and blew it out, forcing his body to still. As far as he could tell, the after effects of the shocks were negligible now.

They’d come for him. Soon, he’d find Clint’s scrawny ass and hear his stupid voice again. Bucky’s eyes snapped open and zeroed in on Natasha as she peeked through the door into the hall. As grateful for her as he was, he suddenly desperately needed to hear Clint’s voice, Steve’s voice, and know they were alright. He hurried after her, catching her attention with a hand on her elbow. “Can I have the spare comm? Where’s Clint, and the rest of the team?”

She tilted her head at him, giving him an inscrutable look before shaking her head. “No comms. It’s just me.”

“What?”

“It’s just me,” she repeated, slowly. “You were snatched straight off a SHIELD mission. They knew we’d be there, they were _waiting_ for us. I don’t know who’s compromised or how pervasive it is.”

Bucky stepped back, his mind a maelstrom.

“It’s not safe,” Natasha continued. “No one knows you're missing except me.”

“You don’t think…”

“No,” she rushed to reassure him. “Christ, no, it wasn’t one of the team. I meant SHIELD.”

“Then why not call the team?”

“SHIELD keeps tabs on the tower. They can take care of themselves, but until I know what’s going on, this is safest. Besides,” she added, humor lacing her tone, “who says I want to deal with Cap and Hawkeye on a rescue op? They’d barge in like the morons they are and probably get all three of you shot.” She peeked back out the door, adjusting the fingerless gloves on her hands. “Besides, then I’d have to deal with Tony when Steve gets hurt, and I’d have to hurt Clint for getting himself killed falling down the stairs or something. Not worth it.”

Bucky snorted, rolling out his shoulders. Nat caught his eye, her eyebrows arched as she studied him. She bumped her shoulder against his and slipped out the door. As Bucky followed, she said, “Later, you and I are going to have a little chat. Right now, you just need to know that Clint Barton would burn the world down around his own ears for you.”

“Yeah, okay,” he murmured, falling in behind her to cover her six as they picked their way down the hall. Whatever she’d done earlier had destroyed it: lights sparked and flickered, cheap ceiling tiles lay in scattered heaps, the walls were scorched and dented in places. He counted seven bodies. “Jesus, Widow.”

“I did ask nicely first.”

“Right,” Bucky murmured as he stepped over another corpse.

Briskly, Natasha said, “The layout here is very basic. Three underground levels, all rectangular: two long halls connected by two shorter halls. Labs, offices, storage, all that stuff.”

“Lemme guess. This is basement three.”

“Yup, short end of level C. Staircases are on alternating corners, and only go to one level each. Not the most thought out base. Topside is an abandoned brewery of all things.” They reached the first corner and she paused, plastering her back against the wall. “We’re in Vermont, by the way.”

As one, they rounded the corner, weapons out, Natasha crouching low so Bucky could aim over her head. They remained frozen for a beat, but nothing moved. “I set a handful of remote detonators on my way in,” Natasha continued as she started down the new, equally wrecked hallway. “We can blow the place when we’re far enough away, yeah?”

Blow it and bury the whole place. Cover that room with the chair under tons and tons of cement and dirt. Other chairs existed, he was pretty sure, but that one would never hurt him again. The thought was enough to make him lightheaded.

She glanced at Bucky when he didn’t respond. “Found some blueprints earlier. Whatever samples they took would be in room 27b, one floor up. Since I made it down here before I had to use any force, there’ll be something like thirty personnel on the upper levels, minimum. Thoughts?”

Bucky hesitated, chewing on his lower lip. “Ditch and blow, Nat. If we find ‘em, then we trash ‘em, but the ‘go boom’ part will make sure that nothing else gets out from this location.” He just wanted _out_ , wanted to be done with this part, this place, this latest horrifying experience and force Clint back into bed with him for the next month.

She shook her head. “We need at least one, so Tony and Bruce can try to to figure out what else they might have been doing, off the records.” He sighed, blowing his hair out of his face, conceding the point with a shrug. They lapsed into silence, Bucky pacing along behind Natasha’s confident form.

Up ahead, the hush shattered as a door slammed open, followed by the stamp of boots against concrete. “Son of a bitch,” Bucky muttered, checking the safety was off on his handgun.

“High/low, or left/right?” Natasha asked, rolling her wrists.

“‘S a corner. High/low.”

They moved in tandem, Bucky stepping out around the corner into the shorter hall with his gun raised and his body bladed as Natasha rolled out to the center of the hall, catching herself on one knee, her right leg extended for balance as she raised both wrists and kept her body low.

Bucky counted eight bodies, eight unfamiliar rifles pointed towards him. His finger pulled the trigger just as Natasha let loose a crackling burst of electricity from her Widow Bites. Two bodies dropped, one with a hole in its face, another a spasming heap of limbs.

The sharp whine of Nat’s weapon made Bucky flinch away, his body reacting instinctively to the sour taste of lightning in the air. Too close to his own run in with a taser, Bucky couldn’t control the way his mind blanked for a moment. The rest of the squad opened fire, a bullet dragging fire across Bucky’s stomach as it grazed him.

He moved, ducking back around the corner as Natasha sprang up from her crouch. Palming the small gun, he threw himself back into the fray, a weapon in each hand. He caught sight of Natasha, her hair a red blur as she straddled one man’s shoulders, her legs clenched around his throat. She bent backwards, shooting a second man without losing her seat.

Three men seemed to be hesitating, trying to figure out how to remove her without shooting her host. Bucky took advantage of the pause and fired again. The gun clicked, empty. Cursing, he dropped it, dodging as the closest man threw out a punch. Shifting his grip on the second gun, Bucky brought it down on the closest skull, spinning away before the body had time to finish collapsing. Someone tried to repeat the move on him, but Bucky twisted, tackling the man down and smashing his head into the floor. The guy didn’t get up. Bucky stood, watching as Natasha rode the last man as he fell, his face purple between her thighs.

She stood as the body slumped, brushing herself off. Bucky took a second to examine the shallow slice just below his belly button. It was a thin, straight line, which had already stopped bleeding. It ached, but from the bruising coloring his skin, his body was handling it fine.

A shirt slapped him in the face. He held it back towards Nat, furrowing his brow in disgust. She flicked a hand at his stomach and he rolled his eyes. “I’m not cleaning it with this. And I’m not wearing it either, picking fibers out of a gash is annoying. It’ll be mostly healed in half an hour anyway.”

Natasha scowled, but let it go when Bucky tossed the shirt down. With a swipe of her toe, she sent a rifle spinning along the floor towards Bucky. “You’re gonna need that.”

With a grunt, he scooped it up, leaving the doctor’s gun on the floor. The rifle was heavily customized, but fit nicely in his hands. “My turn on point.”

“Be my guest.”

* * *

 

Finding room 27b turned out to be a simple matter of following the numbers. They slipped up the stairs unhindered, locking the door behind them to prevent anyone from sneaking up behind them. The second level looked much like the third, gray on gray with white ceiling panels, lit by a series of long, industrial bulbs. They moved cautiously, but quickly.

27b was locked, some kind of scanner beside the thick steel door. Natasha hummed, poking at the glowing box with her tongue poking between her lips. Sighing, Bucky turned his back to her, covering the hall, hands cradling the rifle. He felt exposed, vulnerable. It made his spine itch.

After several minutes of soft curses, Natasha let out a pleased, happy sound and the scanner beeped. The door slid open at the edge of Bucky’s vision, vanishing into the wall with ease. When she tapped his shoulder, Bucky shifted just enough to see her without losing sight of the far end of the hall.

“Cover me? Should be a quick in and out.”

He jerked his head towards the door rather than respond, listening as her soft footsteps faded further into the room. The uneasiness ratcheted up, and he shifted back a step, closer to Nat’s position. The should have run into someone by now, especially after the first group failed to report in. Everything about this operation screamed ineptitude, but there was no way they were going to be able to walk out like this. Bucky swept his gaze from one end of the hall to the other, his finger restlessly tapping the trigger guard.   
  
The lights cut out, plunging the hall into absolute darkness. Bucky threw himself into the doorway before Natasha’s _“Fuck!”_ had a chance to fade. “Widow,” he started, only to cut himself off as he felt air move. Instinctively dropping his weapon, Bucky turned and caught the edge of the door just before it could crush him. He shifted, bracing his back against the open doorway, locking his arms out in front of him. “Jesus Christ.”   
  
“Winter!”   
  
“Got it yet?” He grunted, sweat dripping unpleasantly into the shallow slice in his stomach. The lights going out was only a precursor, meant to take them off guard, leave them blinded and paranoid.   
  
“Gimmie a sec,” she said, sounding farther away. Straining his senses, Bucky tried to find movement in the darkness on either side of the door. A tiny light flickered on, pinpointing Natasha's position across the lab. She stuffed the end of the miniature flashlight between her teeth, highlighting the rows of glass vials locked inside a shelf of some thick, clear material. Frustrated noises replaced her usual mumbling.

Bucky turned away, wanting to have his eyes unspoiled by the light. He tried to cant his shoulders so he could focus on the abyss beyond his position, but his hand slipped. The door lurched forward, squealing closer. Snarling, Bucky met its advance with his bionic hand, drawing squeaks of protest from the material as he dug his metal fingertips in. He bore down on the door, forcing it back inch by resistant inch. “Any fuckin’ time now, Widow.”

They needed to be gone before stage two started.

Natasha’s dark chuckle purred from behind him, and then there was a cascade of broken glass. A hand on his arm announced her presence. He locked his elbows out, forcing the door back another few inches as he slid his legs out of the way so she could duck under his arms. Once she squeezed his flesh wrist from the outside, he released the door and twisted himself into the open air to his right. He misjudged the distance and crashed into Natasha as the door slammed shut. He managed to curl an arm around her waist and take the brunt of the fall.

“Sorry,” he mumbled, eating a mouthful of her hair as she pushed herself up. “You get it?” Standing, he reached out, seeking the wall with his palms. He’d dropped the damn rifle near the door, he just wasn’t sure if it was inside, or outside.

“Got a few things the brains back home will like.”

“Yeah?”

“Saw five vials with your tag, but the rest had a different symbol. I took two. Pretty sure they’re for Hulk.”

“Awesome,” he mumbled, sliding his hands along the wall until he met the door. “So you took a shower in experimental goop that might be for Hulk. Good idea.”

“Idiot,” she said, sounding fond. Her fingers found his back, and stayed. “Like I didn’t get out of the way. What’re you doing?”

“Tryin’ to find the rifle. Think it’s on the other side, though.” Another brush of his hands along the wall and he found the scanner. It had been on the far side of the door as they approached, so they needed to go to the right to find the stairs. He caught her hand and tugged her down the hall.

It was both eerie and comforting, walking in the all encompassing darkness, the silence broken only by the click of their heels against the floor, his hand trailing lightly along the wall. For a moment, Bucky was back in the Tower, a half feral disaster, stalking the empty floors after Steve burned himself out and left him alone. He caught himself listening for the steady _twang thwap_ of Clint’s late night therapy sessions. The sounds had soothed him, night after night, long before he’d gathered the courage to wander into the training room, only to be met with Clint’s single-minded focus.

Bright red lights blazed in the darkness above the stair door, ruining any attempt at night vision. Nat hissed and rubbed at her eyes as they slid into the narrow stairwell. Bucky looked up the tight, winding stair leading to the first subfloor. “Bullshit,” he said, rounding on Nat. She started up, ignoring his outburst.

“There’s no way they managed to haul me down here like this.” He gestured at the ridiculous staircase. “There’s got to be a different way up.”

She paused, favoring him with a slow blink. “Of course there is. How do you think I got down so far without a fight?”

Exasperated, he clambered up after her. “What’d you do?”

“Does it matter?”

He couldn’t help it. He looked up, as though for strength, one hand splayed out in supplication. She snorted and turned away, the lighting turning her hair into a slick spill of wine over her shoulders. “Quit the dramatics and catch up. I want to get out of here.”

The phrase sparked his memory and he ran up after her. “How’d you get away, back at the warehouse?”

“Hid in the drop ceiling until I heard them load you into a vehicle through your earpiece. They remembered to take it out by then, but they’d already packed up to leave.” Bucky gave a strangled, outraged noise as they spilled onto the landing, and she flapped a hand at him. “I told you to get out, you didn’t listen.”

As she wrapped a hand around the handle, she paused, sucking her lower lip into her mouth as she thought. “I figure they’re hoping to corral us. Probably this floor, because once we’re topside, it’s easier to bolt. Unless you have a trick or two I don’t know about, this is —”

“Going to be old school, where we run through the floor that’s probably crawling with the enemy and see how many we can punch on our way out?”

Natasha’s smile gleamed in the emergency lighting, bloody and full of promise.


	10. Chapter 10

Clint dropped into an old, wheeled chair in an ignored corner of Tony’s workshop. The thick manacles on his forearms gave a muted clunk when they impacted the worn arm rests, and he sighed.

He didn’t need the added reminder. The weight and smoothness of the metal along his forearms and calves wasn’t something he could ignore. As much as he resented the cuffs, he hadn’t protested. A single command would cause them to snap together, which meant if he wigged out again and attacked, it would be easier and safer to subdue him this time.

The sensors on his chest pulled at his hair and he grimaced. He let his head drop back as he slouched, toeing at the floor to set the chair spinning.

They hadn’t been able to find anything unusual about him, so far. Clint chewed on the inside of his lip, frustrated. He knew he was missing something, something obvious and just out of reach.

The chair settled into a lazy spiral, helped out by the occasional nudge from his foot. He let his surroundings blur together, streaks of reds, gold, blue and black overlaid in chrome. The conversations beyond him mingled, rising and falling like a stream over rocks: pleasant, predictable. He let it settle into the background as he thought.

All the silver made him think of Bucky’s arm. How he’d hidden it inside hoodies and pockets at first. The way Bucky tended to angle himself, keeping the arm as far away from others as he could. The look on Bucky’s face the first time Clint bypassed his flesh arm and sought out the artificial limb, trailing his fingers up the back of the hand.

How Bucky had pressed silver fingers to a gash in Clint’s leg, only to pull them away red. The arm, a machine created for the purpose of violence, and how it glittered in the sun as Bucky helped bind the wound. The way Bucky’s mouth worked when Clint told him he wasn’t afraid, when Clint kissed the plates of Bucky’s wrist.

Which, of course, led to Bucky himself. His face, and the way Clint could tell so much just from the twist of his lips. How his eyebrows seemed to grow bushier when he scowled. The way his hair, long and thick now, fell into his eyes. Eyes the color of steel, but so, so soft when they looked at Clint.

Bucky’s voice going thick with an outdated Brooklyn drawl when he was irritated. His pink tongue jutting out when Steve caught onto the knife buried in Bucky’s hair. The span of his hands on Clint’s hips, when Buck tried to teach him to dance.

Bucky, ghosting through the tower at three in the morning, alone with bruised eyes, a rigid spine and too many ghosts to name.

Bucky. It had always been Bucky.

The colors drifting past his unfocused eyes changed. Clint halted the lazy spiral of his chair, hooking a foot underneath one of the legs. He blinked and straightened his neck, forcing his eyes to refocus on Phil’s expectant face.

“That’s why,” Clint breathed. “That’s why it’s been weird starts and stops. That’s what he’s been eating.”

Phil just arched his eyebrows, hands tucking into his elbows as he watched Clint fumble for words.

Bucky might have stumbled onto him that first night in the archery range, but by the third time Bucky had sought him out, Clint was already lost. He’d latched onto Bucky like a barnacle, half out of his mind with the desperation to keep him around, to not be alone.

When Clint was alone, the bad things in his head were too hard to drown out, but Bucky had kept them all at bay. Clint had been too numb to pay attention, to notice how easy it was.

“You always do see better at a distance,” Phil said, the barest hint of a smile pulling at his mouth.

Loki couldn’t get his hooks as deep into Clint when Bucky was around, because Clint felt good. Better. But when Clint felt like shit, his head split wide open and Loki could just walk right in.

Whatever was going on, it was fueled by Clint’s guilt, his depression and self loathing. Because of course it was. Christ, hadn’t Phil said that already?

Phil gave a polite clap. “There you go,” he said, “Now let’s work on the part where you think you need someone else to save you, mm?”

“Oh, fuck off already,” Clint grumbled, dropping his head back again.

“Uh, what?”

Clint startled hard enough to nearly unseat himself, letting out a ragged squawk as he struggled to keep the chair from rolling away.

“Sorry,” Bruce said, reaching out to hold the chair still. The humor faded from his face when his gaze landed on the bands encircling Clint’s wrists. Bruce’s jaw twitched and he dragged a hand through his hair. “Tony’s done fiddling with the equipment now. You ready to try again?” He nodded towards Clint’s restraints. “Hopefully we’ll get those off you soon.”

Clint shrugged and stood, trailing behind Bruce as Steve’s voice cut across the room.

“Jesus, Tony. Cut it out.” Clint looked up in time to watch Steve clap a hand over Tony’s face, fingers spread to cover as much as he could. “You’re ridiculous,” Steve continued, sounding both fond and exasperated. “I’ll go give him a call.” He dropped a kiss into Tony’s hair and walked away, shaking his head as Tony made an outraged noise and patted at his head.

“Try Darcy,” Tony called after him. “She’s the only one who keeps her phone on her.” He turned back to the room, clapping his hands. “Alright, where’d the other two run off to?”

“We’re right here,” Bruce sighed.

“Oh, good. Ready to try turning Clint off and on again?”

“Cute,” Bruce muttered, making his way over to his own station.

“Why’s Steve calling Thor?” Clint wondered, positioning himself back over the big X taped onto the floor.

Tony leaned around his display, giving Clint his best ‘you’re an idiot’ expression. “To make sure his brother is where he should be, for one.”

Clint didn’t have a response for that, past a full body shudder. Pale blue lights, the shade of Tony’s holographic lasers, danced around his body. Clint closed his eyes, willing his breathing to settle into a slow, familiar rhythm. His heart rate followed.

It may not be the same blue as Loki’s staff, the blue that slides over his eyes like terrible sunglasses, but Clint found himself less than fond of the color anyway. The only good thing about blue, he figured, was the result of it rolling around with red. His mouth twitched. He’d have to remember to tell Bucky that one later.

He’d have to tell Bucky a lot of things, later.

Clint swallowed against the surge of uncertainty. How selfish was he, to ask for more, after everything Bucky’s done for him?

Tony’s annoyed chattering about vibrations and frequencies jarred him the rest of the way out of his trance. Bruce cut through Tony’s rant. “But that’s assuming quite a lot, isn’t it? Especially without prior data to use as a baseline.” Bruce made a face, propping his hip up on the table as he faced Tony. “I know you’ve got that thing against Strange, but it might be time to call him anyway.”

Tony snorted as Clint’s eyes went wide. His mind was already a mess, full of things he hadn’t put there. Shoving someone else as unpredictable as Strange into the mix sounded like a bad idea.

“Already tried, Big Green.” Tony threw his arms wide. “His metaphysical answering service is out of order or something. And his sidekick says he’s off world until further notice. So.” Tony dropped one hand to his hip, and rubbed at the hair on his chin. “Guy’s useless as ever.”

“And Reed?”

Tony pointed at the door. “Get the fuck out. Do you want Clint to die?”

“Tony, he’s good at what he does.”

Phil strolled into sight, hands shoved into his pockets as he peered over Bruce’s shoulder. Tony’s display gave a gentle chime.

“Huh,” Tony mumbled. “But it’s the wrong…” He looked up and caught Clint’s eyes. “Has anything happened in the last few minutes?”

“Coulson’s chillin’ with Bruce.”

“What?” Bruce asked, startling upright. He peered around himself while Tony huffed a laugh through his nose.

“So this might be Agent’s signature, then. Okay.” Tony rolled his lower lip through his teeth. “Can you call Loki up, deliberately?”

“Fuck no,” Clint spat out, jerking back several steps. “Are you nuts?” His eyes slid over to Phil’s unamused face. “Phil says fuck you, by the way.”

“No, he doesn’t,” Tony responded, automatically. Then he blinked and craned his head to look over near Bruce. “Does he?”

“Can I try something?” Bruce asked, eyes on Clint as he raised one hand slightly.

Tony hummed his assent, but Bruce waited until Clint nodded. “Alright. Close your eyes for me, please.”

Clint shifted, settling his weight evenly before he complied.

“Good, okay. Now, can you still find Coulson?”

“What?” Tony and Clint chorused.

“Just give it a try. Keep your eyes closed, and try to sense him. I don’t know how much he reacts to outer stimulus, but -” Bruce cleared his throat. “If you could wander around, Coulson, that would be helpful.”

Clint found himself falling back into his meditative headspace, his body loose and easy as he breathed through his open mouth. This time, though, he didn’t call up the feel of his bow beneath his hands. Instead, he focused on the faint taste of metal in the air, the restless tapping coming from Tony’s direction. He focused on finding Phil.

Something cool traced its way across his awareness, a thin, meandering path that circled around him twice and then backed off. It paused right in front of Clint, just for a moment.

“Got it,” Bruce said, his quiet voice jerking Clint back to the present. “That’s got to be Coulson’s signature, right there.

Clint’s eyes snapped open, catching Phil’s pleased smirk as he walked away. Surprisingly, the faint, minty sensation didn’t fade. Clint could follow Phil’s progress around the lab without ever having to turn around.

“Now, try Loki,” Tony said.

“I’m not gonna go asking for him to come play, the fuck are you on, bro?” Clint snapped, crossing his arms and dropping his chin to his chest. Saying the name out loud had knocked him out for hours. They had no idea what might go wrong if he invited the son of a bitch in.

He went fuzzy around the edges with panic. He’d attacked them, for Christ’s sake. It wasn’t safe. He wasn’t safe. Clint couldn’t trust his own eyes anymore. He couldn’t - God, what if he ended up hurting Bucky and didn’t know? Just like Phil, all over again. Just like the dream with Natasha. He’d come out of it and Buck would be broken and bleeding at his feet. Clint couldn’t get enough air.  
  
“Barton,” Phil snapped.

“Can’t,” Clint returned, holding himself still. “I can’t.” He began to shiver, tiny, rough vibrations along his frame.  
  
A soft whoosh meant the doors had opened, and Clint’s head snapped up. Bucky, maybe it would be Bucky -

It was Steve. Clint nearly buckled under the mix of disappointment and relief.

“Oh, this is delightful,” Loki cooed, cold breath curling along Clint’s ear. “What was the midgardian term? It was so colorful, too.” Loki hummed.

Clint’s shivers turned into full blown shaking.

“What the hell did I just miss,” Tony said, his voice tight. “I don’t even know what this correlates to.”

“I remember now,” Loki continued. “Train wreck. You are a train wreck, my hawklet. A disaster too beautiful to look away from.”

“Bruce, look- no, thirty seconds ago there was nothing and now-, holy shit that’s all over the place. Jarvis?”

“Barton,” Steve said, his firm voice slicing through Tony’s gibberish.

Clint flinched and held himself tighter, trying to regain control of himself.

“Sitrep, Hawkeye.”

“He’s here,” Clint ground out between clenched teeth. “You wanted him, he’s fucking here.”

Frozen fingertips trailed up his spine and Clint gave a hysterical bark of laughter as he stumbled away, closer to the pleasant wintergreen sensation of Phil.

Behind him, Loki remained a dark, bitter blot of ice. Phil ran a soothing hand up his arm, but Clint couldn’t look away from Loki’s toothy grin.

“Not to be insensitive or anything, but don’t move,” Tony said, his hands flying over his console. “I’ll get better readings if you’re stationary, and the faster we get a bead on him, the faster we can figure out how to pull his plug.”

Bruce stepped in front of him, blocking most of Loki out behind him. “Talk to me,” he said, intent on Clint’s face. “How did you trigger him?”

“Didn’t,” Clint bit out, stopping his shaking through sheer force of will. “Started freaking out.”

“And he showed up,” Bruce murmured, looking thoughtful. “So what is the reason behind Coulson, then?” He pushed his glasses back up his nose. “Is he your subconscious attempting to fight back, or an actual autonomous being?”

“Sir, I believe I found something,” Jarvis announced, pulling Clint’s attention to where Tony peered, confused, at yet another file. When Clint turned back to Bruce, Loki had draped himself along the man’s back.

Clint yelped and threw himself away.

“You’ve got to get yourself under control,” Phil started, only to be cut short.

“Sir,” Jarvis’s voice crackled urgently over the speakers. “Director Fury has overridden my system and is inside the tower.”

“Son of a bitch,” Clint breathed, wide eyes flashing between Phil and Loki. Tony dissolved into a stream of curses, only half of them in languages Clint knew. Distantly, Clint noted Bruce striding back to his workstation, and Steve hurrying towards the doors.

Clint found himself frantically chanting, “Go away,” despite the way Loki’s smile only grew.

“You have to calm down,” Phil reminded him.

Fury stormed into the lab in his usual dramatic fashion: Long, angry strides, the edges of his coat whipping about his legs. The scowl slid off his face once he took in the room, his one eye going wide under his arched brows. He paused, cocking his head to better survey the room.

Surprise shifted into resignation and then the determined scowl was back. “Whatever the hell is going on here — and you all will be explaining this shitshow before I leave — put in on the back burner for five minutes. We got a problem,” he said, locking eyes with Steve as he came further into the room.

“And?” Steve prompted.

Fury sighed, settling a hand on his hip as he dropped his face into his hand.

Clint’s blood ran cold. “No,” he said. “No.”

Ignoring the confused looks everyone else shot him, Clint glared at Fury, his hands flexing. Fury didn’t back down for anything, but even he had learned that Steve Rogers had spots which shouldn’t be tested.

And Fury had just looked away from Steve.

“Barnes and Romanova are MIA,” Fury said, settling his attention back onto Steve.

The room exploded, or maybe that was only the space between Clint’s ears. He closed his eyes and shook his head, hard, but when he reopened his eyes, Fury remained. And Bucky and Nat didn’t appear out of thin air.

Steve’s vicious, frigid voice cut through the white noise in Clint’s head. “They’re what?” It wasn’t even a question, the way the words hurtled through the air. It was a lance, a denial and a promise that lifted the hair on Clint’s arms.

Fury didn’t even blink. “Did I stutter, Captain?”

Tony cut in, his voice low and dark in a way Clint had never heard before. “Cut the crap, Cyclops. We loaned you two of our people; you lost them. Details. Right fucking now.”

Loki’s degranged giggles floated on the heavy silence that followed Tony’s voice. Fury cocked his jaw out with a crack, and Tony’s patience snapped.

“Time’s up, asshole. J, baby, initialize EARWIG, authorization code: devil’s in the details. Only the Devil made a housecall, lucky us.” Jarvis murmured an acknowledgement as Tony continued. “Find me everything about this mission, and hey, while you’re there, anything else of interest, too, just for fun.”

Fury sighed and shoved a hand into his coat, pulling a thin USB free. He tossed it to Steve. “Everything I have is on there. Near as I can tell, we got a leak somewhere. This was meant to be a soft op, see how Barnes does without a handler in his ear. Instead, I got missing agents, a burnt out warehouse and fucking bullet casings.”

Clint swallowed the bile threatening to rise up his throat as he watched Steve deliver the device to Bruce and Tony. “What tipped you off?”

Fury turned his attention towards Clint for the first time. “Romanoff missed check-in,” he responded.

“You sent them on a milk run,” Clint shot back, his cheeks going hot with the force of his anger. He stormed closer, only to have Steve slap a broad hand into his chest, keeping him still. “Don’t bullshit me, she didn’t have a check in for a milk run, she had a check in for Bucky. You think he’s gone Winter on her, you son of a bitch.”

Clint backed away from Steve’s restraining arm, bumping into the coolness of Phil’s chest. He tore at his hair, rubbed his mouth hard enough to press his lips into his teeth. “I’m so fucking stupid.”

He stepped back, forcing Phil to give way behind him, even as Loki’s laughter faded. “She took that op to make sure some trigger happy idiot didn’t pop him in the back.”

“Is he right?” Steve asked, stepping in to block Clint from Fury’s eyes.

Fury grimaced. “You playing favorites leaves me in a bad way with the WSC. They think Widow’s the only unbiased member of your team, which is why I’ve got them teamed up.”

“You’ve been asking a member of my team to spy on another member of my team,” Steve intoned, his voice dropping on the last few words.

“No,” Fury shot back, crossing his arms over his chest and glaring at Steve. “I asked a member of your team to fucking help me dance for the WSC, and save your collective asses.”

“Anything happens to them,” Clint cut in, his voice an unrecognizable growl, “and I swear to every fucking god that I will -”

Bruce’s startled exclamation caught the room’s attention. He stood near his workbench, one hand clenched around the edge of the counter as the blood drained from his face. Next to him, Tony grew progressively darker as he dissolved into a cascade of curses. He bit off a word with a clack of his teeth, his gaze zeroing in on Steve.

“I’m sorry,” he said, “Baby, I’m sorry.” Tony’s voice was a terrible thing, broken and weak.

Steve, bewildered, got as far as “Tony, what the hell,” before Tony scooped something from the screens arrayed in front of him and chucked it into the open space above their heads.

The image expanded, shifting and zooming in rapidly. A desk, or a tabletop emerged as the image settled, the lacquer bubbling and peeling away, just enough to show thick, curved lines underneath, etched into the material.

Jarvis highlighted the curves and pulled them free, projecting the completed shape right beside the original.

It took Clint a moment to realize the high, whining noise came from his own throat.

Steve pivoted, hands burying themselves in the lapels of Fury’s coat. “Hydra,” he thundered, hauling Fury up onto his toes. “Hydra got their mitts on Bucky again?”

Clint couldn’t turn away from the skull-faced octopus, Loki’s howling laughter drowning out the rest of Steve’s bellows.

He’d made one promise to Bucky. One commitment, just one, the only pledge he’d allowed himself to make, and he’d broken it. Spots bloomed in his eyes, his vision tunneling into nothing as he stood, frozen and broken.

“I won’t be taken again,” Clint said, too loud, too drunk to tamper down the vehemence in his tone. He hadn’t meant to say it out loud, but the relief was instantaneous. He meant it - he wouldn’t let himself be used like that a second time. He’d eat a bullet, first.

If anyone in the world knew what he meant, it was the man sprawled out beside him, hand wrapped loosely around a handle of vodka. Maybe it wasn’t so bad, then, that he’d said it aloud. He took another swig from his own bottle.

Bucky had shifted, the intensivity of his gaze pining Clint in place more effectively than a skewer through the chest.

“I’ll come for you,” Clint swore, the need to make Bucky know burning through his gut. His voice rasped against his teeth, low and fervent. “I’ll come for you,” he repeated, because he couldn’t say ‘I’ll protect you, I’ll keep you safe’ - Clint couldn’t protect himself. But this, this he could promise. “You come for me. Make it stop. And I’ll come for you.”

After an eternity, Buck nodded, and knocked their bottles together. “Make it stop,” he repeated, his voice like grinding rocks. “They won’t win.” Their little fingers wound tight together, sealing their vow with childlike determination.

Clint grinned, more free than he’d been in lifetimes.

“Such a beautiful declaration,” Loki purred, the sense of cold tar slinking closer. “How sad that you are both unable to fulfill it. You have never left me, and the soldier? Well. They won’t let him slip free a second time. Not their most precious asset.”

Pain exploded across his cheek, his head snapping to the side with the force of the slap. Clint staggered away, clapping a hand to his cheek as he sucked in ragged lungfuls of air.

“Snap out of it,” Tony snarled. “Don’t you pull this on us right now, you hear me, Barton?”

Clint stared at him, his mind too scattered to make sense of Tony’s words.

Phil wrapped his arms around his chest, anchoring Clint back inside his own skin. The mind-numbing panic began to ebb.

“The fuck was that,” Fury snapped.

“None of your concern,” Steve responded, his voice like stone.

“Bullshit, Captain,” Fury said. “His eyes were blue. You telling me he’s still possessed?” Fury sliced through the air with the flat of his hand. “We ain’t got time for this shit. He’s not safe,” Fury jabbed at Clint, “which you already know or he wouldn’t be fuckin’ cuffed. So lock his ass down or I will.”

Tony shifted, pressing his back into Clint’s chest, one arm extended to cage him in. Clint wrapped a hand around Tony’s hip and squeezed, using Tony’s body heat to anchor himself as his mind spun.

Steve opened his mouth to argue and Fury surged up into him, toe to toe. “Two of the most dangerous people alive have possibly been kidnapped by Hydra, which might, incidentally, also mean they’re both compromised - brainwashed into Hydra’s personal hit squad, two point oh. We do not have time for this. Lock him down, we’ll handle that crisis after we get our people back.”

“I’m going,” Clint said, his voice wobbly and fractured. “You guys- you guys gotta get them and you gotta go now. I’ll go back in the Hulk’s box.” He moved before anyone could try to continue the argument, his body jerky and uncoordinated as he brushed past Tony.

Bruce caught up to him as the elevator door opened. “Want to tell me what you’re up to?”

Clint stared blankly at the chrome doors as Jarvis pulled them shut. “Fury won’t back down. Steve’s too stubborn for his own good. You guys need to find- you have to get them back, Bruce. I’m a liability.” It hurt to say it, but not as much as knowing if he’d asked for help earlier, he might’ve been able to back them up.

“Right,” Bruce murmured, following Clint as the elevator spilled them onto Hulk’s floor. “If you say so.”

Clint marched right into the containment unit. Bruce hesitated, hand on the door. “Bruce,” Clint said, fighting to keep his voice even. “Go.”

“We’ll find them,” Bruce answered, like a promise. “We’ll get them home.” Then, he shoved the door closed, locking Clint back in with his demons.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for the short chapter, my sister and her boys are back in town for a bit and I screwed my whole schedule up whoops


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Clint's never been good at staying behind.

Footsteps seemed to echo in the hush after Bruce closed him in. Like everything else, the noises were psychosomatic — they lived inside his head, taunting him as he spiraled further into insanity.

He shook himself, rolling his neck until it gave a harsh crack in the stillness, bouncing off the stark, thick walls separating him from the rest of the world.

His world, anyway, he thought as he loosened his shoulders next. Natasha was family, and Bucky was… everything.

And they needed him.

Clint slid a hand into his pocket, running unsteady fingers over the cool length of the screwdriver he’d lifted off Tony in the lab. He squeezed his hand around it, feeling the ridges of the molded handle bite into his palm.

Panic pressed along the edges of his awareness, kept out by the bubble of focus he’d earned over a lifetime of violence. It plucked at his thoughts, trying to turn them sluggish, circular — they had Nat, they had Buck— but his resolve held fast. He tugged the flathead from his pocket and breathed deep.

Which meant the crackling, dark glacier in his head decided to remind him it was awake, sending out sharp waves of scorn and pain. “I suppose this moment counts as ‘brave’,” Clint jerked before he could stop himself, and Loki loosed a chuckle. “If one cared for such things, anyway.”

Loki lounged on the sole cot in the room, behind Clint. Try as he might, he couldn’t banish the intimate awareness of the creature’s presence, the frigid, painful sore in his skull which had blossomed under Tony’s machines. Clint felt it as Loki stretched, an obscene reverberation inside his own skin, somehow distant but impossible to ignore.

Thankfully, the soft, velvety wintergreen of Phil hadn’t left him either. It seemed to caress him from the inside, a steadying, subtle pressure, holding him up beneath the onslaught of creeping frost.

He eyed the walls, shifting his grip on the screwdriver until the point dug into the meat of his thumb. The tiny point of pain helped him concentrate, drawing his mind out of the hole in his head. Pressing harder, Clint stepped back, letting his eyes rove over the gray walls.

That same almost-echo fluttered down his nerves as Loki tilted his head, his eyes boring holes in Clint’s back. “This infantile, asinine plan is on par with the...ah, cleverness of Thor himself.” Loki gave several slow claps, the sharp sound lancing into Clint’s head. “Well done, hawk. Well done.”

Ignoring how his shoulders inched up towards his ears, Clint swallowed his retort. “Yo, J?”

“Agent Barton, how may I be of assistance?”

“Can you tell me what Fury’s up to?”

“Oh yes,” Loki murmured, “how swiftly will he bury you in SHIELD’s gullet, do you think?”

“Of course,” Jarvis responded. “The Director is currently discussing methods of identifying a possible informant with Captain Rogers. He has indicated that he will return directly to SHIELD headquarters.”

Clint sucked his left cheek in between his teeth and bit down, nodding absently as he relaxed his grip on the screwdriver. Fury wouldn’t be a problem, then. He’d either stay holed up with Cap, or flounce off in a snit to go burn down his own web to find the fly. One less person to worry about. Fury, no doubt, was not handling the thought of an infiltrator well.

“And the rest?”

“Sir, and Doctor Banner are attempting to triangulate a location for Agents Barnes and Romanova based on Agent Romanova’s last known cellular signal. They remain in Sir’s lab for the moment.”

“And what are the odds of that working?” Loki said, his voice syrupy sweet. “Considering the lack of available data from which to project a location.”

“Thanks,” Clint murmured, rubbing at his eyes. When he opened them, Phil stood within arm’s reach, looking unruffled as ever in his signature suit.

“D’you think Buck would go for matching trackers?” Clint asked, unsurprised at Phil’s quiet sigh. “Gotta be better than friendship bracelets.” He cracked a smile when Phil rolled his eyes.

“I’d point out how that might be a sign of an unhealthy relationship, but in light of both the participants and the current situation, I figure I should refrain.”

Clint snorted, pulling the screwdriver from his pocket. He spun it around his fingers and laid his free hand on the wall. Keeping his hand flat, he began to walk around the length of his prison.

“Tell me,” Loki started, “What do you intend to do should your fair princess no longer recognize you? After all, he may have no choice. His mind is not his own, after all. He may have been consumed by the Soldier. Would you even be able to discern the difference, I wonder? Since your mind betrays you so easily.”

His heart twisted in his chest, Loki’s falsely concerned tone hitting closer to his fears than Clint could handle. Licking his lips, he stopped, the top of his sneaker squeaking against the gray floor. “Jarvis.”

Fuck, he hated himself. He hated Loki, he hated the Hulk Box, he hated everything. Not that it was a new sensation, or that he had a better solution. He had to keep his promise, had to bring his family home, had to move fast before his demons grew too big and ate him up. But, Christ, Jarvis was a friend. He caught Phil’s eye, and was granted a warm, encouraging smile.

“Yes, Agent?”

Clint took a deep breath, blowing it out with his eyes closed. Squaring his shoulders, he opened them and said, “Sierra November Echo: Clint Barton. Activate Look Away.”

Static filtered from the speakers, the light from the hidden cameras flashing bright, once, twice, and then cutting out and taking the noise with it. Clint’s heart raced, and he swallowed, trying to clear the cotton from his mouth.

“Oh, my. What’s this?” Loki dropped the fruity voice, sounding intrigued and surprised. Clint gave his head a hard shake.

Everyone in the tower had a specific code, which activated a privacy program, restricting Jarvis’s ability to monitor or interact in specific areas. But Tony had created a more in-depth feature for Bucky, closer to cloaking than anything else. Once Bucky had begun spending so much time with Clint, seeking him out in favor of even Steve, Clint’s voice print had been added to the authorization for Look Away.

Much like the eyes always see the nose, but the brain filters it out, Jarvis would still see Clint, but his programming would force him to skip right over him, rendering Clint invisible until he uttered the counter command.

Briefly, Clint hesitated, hand still pressed flat to the wall. It was entirely possible that Tony had killed off that code, and Jarvis was only humoring him. Bucky hadn’t needed it in a couple months, now, and Clint had learned the hard way that Jarvis was as tricky as his maker.

He made a face. It wasn’t like he had options. Either it worked, or it didn’t. Clint resumed his trek around the room, pausing once he reached the doorway again.

Loki began to hum, that same jarring set of notes which burrowed into Clint’s bones and made them shake.

Clint swung around, flinging the screwdriver before his eyes landed on Loki’s lanky form. It sank right through the hollow of Loki’s throat and bounced off the wall behind him, falling into the messy blankets.

He felt more than heard Phil’s exasperated sigh.

“You dare,” Loki began, getting to his feet in a slow, regal movement.

“I might be an idiot, but I’m not that fuckin’ dumb,” Clint interrupted. He just didn’t have it in him to deal with this, right now. It didn’t matter, riling up the supernatural whatever in his head— he had things to do. Standing around and waiting for the magical whatever to turn his brain into mush wasn’t on the list.

“Whatever the hell that song thing is, you do it for a reason. It gives me headaches. Do me a favor and shut the fuck up.”

Loki laughed, sending chills down Clint’s spine.

“Okay,” Phil’s voice said from behind Clint. “While I admire the intent, I’d like to remind you that I am, at most, a magical parasite, and fending off the demigod is actually kind of tiring. So if you could stop goading the alien living in your brain, I’d appreciate it.”

Loki settled back down on the cot, singing his song louder than he had before, content to be annoying for the moment.

Clint’s skull throbbed. He darted in, snatching the tool back off the cot. He’d just have to move fast, and hope Loki would fade soon. “Maybe,” he said, making a second circuit around the room, tapping at the wall with the screwdriver as he pressed his ear against the wall. Even with his fancy aids, Clint relied more on the vibrations from the tapping than the sounds.

“You should fight some smaller bosses, level up.” The longer Loki sang, the more his stomach curled into knots. “Cut some grass, find some hearts. Drink more coffee, leave me the fuck alone to figure this out.”

He did his best to tune out Phil’s sarcastic response, and ignore the way his bones seemed to shake in sync with Loki’s warbling. Somewhere in the room, there should be a panel or two, a way to reach the wiring. Right?

The room was designed to hold a guy the size of a mountain, with a tendency to smash things for fun. Normal sized people weren’t part of the blueprints. There had to be something, anything.

He swallowed, sweat trickling down skin that stretched too tight over his jaw. Faint speckles of color floated on the inside of his lids when he closed his eyes. Clint hadn’t prayed so hard for silence since he was a kid.

Part of the wall behind the door opening resonated when he hit it, a hollow, tinny sensation where before there had only been heavy space. Clint smiled. He shoved himself away from the wall, so he could try to find a seam. Black spiraled in his vision immediately, eating away at the wall until only a pinprick remained. He struggled to pull air into his compressed lungs. Wind screamed in his ears and the ground fell out from under his lurching feet.

He hit the ground hard, elbow first. The explosion of pain hovered just out of reach.

Clint’s lids fluttered, his eyes rolling in his head as he fought his body for control, and lost. Soft puffs of air blew across his prickling skin, travelling from his hairline to his shoulder. Pure stubbornness led to Clint locking his gaze upwards, onto Loki’s shoulder.

Loki shifted, pulling his head away from Clint’s skin, settling his weight across Clint’s hips and pinning him completely, one hand holding Clint’s wrists to the floor. His other hand trailed down Clint’s adam’s apple, a hard, unyielding pressure. He pressed down, squeezing Clint’s throat, watching Clint squirm underneath him with parted lips.

“Such desperation,” Loki whispered, his eyes manic. “You taste so good, my little hawk.”

All at once, Clint’s brain clicked back online, distancing him from the panic clawing along his spine. Loki leaned closer, intent on watching him suffocate.

Clint took advantage of Loki’s distraction, playing up his weakness. He shifted his head, angling for Loki’s thumb to put more pressure on his carotid artery. Clint’s face went bright red and swollen, and Loki’s tongue darted out to wet his lips. He let his legs splay out, writhing his hips while he tried to coil his thoughts into a missile.

Before, Clint had used his silence to break Loki away, but right then, he couldn’t find the silence past the blood pounding in his ears. Instead, he amassed pain. Broken bones, burns, gunshots and gaping, jagged flaps of skin left behind by a blade, sewing himself together with only alcohol to numb his nerves. He shoved water in his lungs, dislocated shoulders and a shattered thumb together, every single moment in his life that had hurt him, physically, and let it overwhelm the black hole in his head.

Loki fell back with a hoarse shout. Clint managed to skitter backwards, a demented spider impersonation before he collapsed, gasping, coughing and choking.

He struggled to his knees, one arm tight to his screaming chest as he gulped down oxygen. His eyes pounded in their sockets, his elbows were sore from cracking the floor, his head couldn’t stop spinning. He had to get up. He had to get out. From the corner of his eye, he caught Loki straighten, murder etched in his features.

Clint wasn’t sure how, but he managed to stagger to his feet. He swung out with the arm not holding his ribs, his limb slicing clean through Loki’s chest. Countless needles seemed to pierce his arm at once and he loosed a strangled scream. Jerking away, Clint hunched over, pressing his tingling arm to his stomach.

Where the hell was Phil?

“Right here,” Phil said, his hand cupping the nape of Clint’s neck. “The game board is changing.” He stepped in front of Clint, shoving him back hard enough to sending him tumbling back to the ground. “I don’t know how much help I’ll be, now. The rules are different. Again.”

Phil sounded disgruntled, and Clint almost wanted to laugh. Almost. Instead, he curled around the elbow he’d broken his fall with, the same one he’d hit before. His entire lower arm sang unpleasantly. He huffed out nonsensical curses, flexing his hands in the hopes it would drive the sensation away.

Clint watched from the floor as Phil and Loki flowed around one another in a timeless rhythm, exchanging blows, slipping away and coming back again and again. Each time Loki landed a hit, his fist seemed to glow.

Phil began to lag.

“Help me,” Phil’s voice murmured in his head as his body twisted under Loki’s arm. “This isn’t a real battle, with fists and projectiles. The landscape is in your mind.”

“I dunno how,” Clint croaked, forcing himself upright with a groan. Pins and needles took over his fingertips. He extended his arm and bent it, reassuring himself he hadn’t broken his elbow.

“My purpose is to assist you, just like always, Barton. I’m buying you time to do your own job, but I can’t do it alone, not like this.”

Clint blinked, confused. He could feel Phil’s exasperation, his drive to keep Loki away. He blinked again and felt something slide into place. “Oh,” he said, feeling slow.

He closed his eyes again, leaning against the cot behind him. Twice now he’d managed to shut Loki down, in some kind of ...surge, almost. This time, he focused on Phil.

He thought of the quiet confidence which caught Clint’s curiosity a lifetime ago. The self assured way he moved, the constant potential in his careful movements. His hands as they flowed over his weapons, how he handled a knife like a ballerina, delicate and deceptively strong. He thought of the trust he’d stored in Phil Coulson, the belief and respect Clint had thought he’d been incapable of after years on the street. He thought of the strength in Phil’s shoulders, the trim line of his hips. Memory after memory, he funneled into the gentle mint in his head, feeling it grow under his care.

Clint opened his eyes.

Loki stood, back flush against the far wall as he panted. Phil, his body outlined in a faint, white light, pressed in close to the taller man. “What did I say,” he remarked, his voice deafening inside Clint’s head. “About being better fed?”

Phil shoved out, his hands sinking into Loki’s stomach. He thrust his arms up, until they were buried to the elbow in the taller man’s flesh. Loki’s mouth dropped open on a silent scream. Clint swallowed. He knew, could feel the faint pulse of it in his own hands, that Phil’s fingers were wrapped around Loki’s heart.

“Phil,” Clint called, his voice hoarse and jagged. He wasn’t sure what he was trying to prevent, but the minty spot seemed full of pointy edges and bitterness. “Phil, don’t.”

“Let’s see if I can make a repeat performance difficult for you, shall we?” Phil continued, oblivious to Clint’s efforts to scramble upright. His body began to shine brighter, and Loki grabbed at his arms, mouth moving soundlessly.

“Too late,” Phil said, soft. The pale glow moved, snaking its way down Phil’s form until it concentrated in his chest, his shoulders. “I’m done playing.”

As the power coiled down his arms and burst into Loki in a thick rush, Clint could feel pressure at his fingertips, a slick heat under his nails as Phil clenched his hands into the meat of Loki’s pounding heart.

Loki screamed, his eyes and mouth oozing white lines.

Clint hovered just behind Phil, frozen and terrified.

The glow faded, centered in Loki’s chest now. Phil’s body grew faint, translucent as Clint watched in horror. “You’re going to need to move fast,” Phil said, glancing at Clint from the edge of his eye. “I’m not really sure what this’ll do, other than damage him.”

Phil pressed again, ripping another shriek from Loki’s throat before Phil’s image flickered and vanished.

Loki remained, sliding down the wall Phil had pinned him against until he lay in a twitching heap. The white light pulsed from under his skin, bursting free in places, bubbling and writhing along Loki’s face. It would have bothered Clint less if it had been blood. As it was, the crystal light pooling around Loki may as well have been Phil’s own version of a life force.

“What the fuck,” Clint breathed, eyes wide just as Loki disappeared. He stood, swaying slightly on his feet as he stared down at the spot, jaw dropped. “What the fuck.” Clint looked up, his gaze darting around the containment unit. It landed on something just under the cot, something small and metallic.

He found himself moving before he’d thought about it. His mind seemed to skip a beat, and then he held the screwdriver in his hand, fingers curled tightly around the base. He shook his head.

Whatever else was going on, it had to wait. He couldn’t do this now, couldn’t fall apart, not yet. He could mourn Phil all over again once Bucky came home.

Assuming the freaky fireworks meant Phil had pulled a self destruct, anyway. This time, Clint gave himself a full body shake. Now was not the time, no matter how the thought made him want to double over and puke.

He turned back to the hollow sounding section, tucking the screwdriver between his teeth. He bit down with a growl, until his jaw ached. Using the sensitive tips of his fingers, rather than the calloused pads, Clint ran his hands over the wall. Inch by inch he slid his fingers, eyes screwed shut. The pinky of his right hand slipped over a miniscule line, a deviation from the relentless smoothness just above his head.

Clint pressed his pinky into the spot, hard, and brought his other fingers around. Soon, Clint had seven fingers pressed against the microscopic groove, and he grinned around the tool in his mouth, nearly dropping it as his jaw relaxed. He shoved his fingers harder against the seam.

He wouldn’t be able to open it by pushing, not when Tony and Bruce had compensated for Hulk’s strength. Instead, he pressed his fingers towards the side, methodologically checking all directions. The seam gave, barely noticeable, when he angled up.

Clint knocked his head against the wall, tears burning behind his eyes. He wasn’t sure if they were in relief, or frustration. Opening his eyes, Clint pulled one hand free to grab the screwdriver.

It took too long and cost him several bloody fingertips, but Clint managed to wedge the screwdriver into the seam. Bit by tiny, infuriating bit, Clint pried the panel up. Sweat caused him to lose his grip, and his progress, twice. The tears blurred his vision by the time something clicked and the panel froze open. He gasped, relief making his legs wobble as he rested his head against the lip of the opening.

Shoving it all the way up took only a moment. Clint’s excitement tempered with crushing disappointment, his teeth nearly biting through his lip as he took in the resulting gap. Natasha might fit through easily, but Clint’s shoulders?

He rose up on tiptoe to peer inside. Just below the opening lay something similar to a freight elevator: a long, plank attached to thick cables, wide enough to lay on if he was careful.

“Dumbwaiter, maybe,” He mumbled to himself. “Gotta be. But how do I get in?”

Clint fell back onto his feet, his eyebrows bunching up as he took in the sparse room. “This is gonna suck,” he breathed, resigned but determined.

Shoving the cot over took only a minute, but Clint found himself staring at the entrance, a disbelieving twist to his mouth as he stood on the bed. “Son of a bitch.”

He slipped his head in, tilting it to the side, his fingers clenching around the flat lip. With a grunt, he jumped, shoving his upper body through as hard and fast as he could. The wall scraped against his back and chest, digging deep where his weight rested on the opening.

In the end, he shoved himself through, legs flailing and wiggling behind him as he forced himself through an opening too small for his shoulders. He heard fabric tear, swore viciously when he caught his nipple, but once the swell of his back passed the opening, his body fell through. Clint sprawled precariously on the dumbwaiter, panting and wincing at the wetness spotting his upper half. He’d torn more than his shirt.

“Awesome,” he gasped into the dark shaft. “Now what.”  
  
Hauling himself up the dumbwaiter shaft left Clint trembling as he slipped out into one of the labs. Thankfully, Clint had done a painstaking sweep of the tower within the first few weeks of moving in. He’d long since memorized each floor’s layout, and the hidden passages tucked into each.

This particular floor housed a staircase which led straight into one of those passages. He tapped the brick facade of the hall, too tired to smile when it gave way. He thumped down the stairs, grunting when he caught himself at the bottom, before throwing himself down the corridor. It would let him out behind the middle bookcase on the entertainment floor. He could reach the elevator from there, the one which only went to their personal floors.

Clint focused on his intended path rather than the sluggish way the black hole in his head rolled and bobbed, or the way the mint sensation had faded into nothing.

Distracted, he collided with a warm, hard surface upon bolting out of the hidden hallway. Iron bands clamped around his biceps, pinning him in place and consequently keeping him upright.

“Oof,” Clint groaned, his nose smashed into cotton.

“Apologies, my friend,” Thor rumbled as he helped Clint regain his balance. “Is that another of Tony’s pathways?” He nodded back towards the still open bookshelf.

Clint kicked it shut, his pulse galloping in his throat. “Yeah,” he answered, shaking, rapidly casting around for an explanation. If he had any kind of luck at all, Thor wouldn't know anything yet. He knew better than to count on something as useless as luck.

A frown creased Thor’s face as Clint looked up, his mouth open to spew… something, anything. “Are you well?” Thor cut in, the frown melting into concern. “You are pale, and sweat soaked.” Thor bent, wrapping one meaty hand around the shaft of his hammer and straightening. “Does something pursue you?”

Then, Thor’s face shifted to suspicion. “Where is Bucky?” He turned, as though expecting Bucky to walk by. “I returned at the Captain’s behest, though he said nought but my return would be most welcome.” He fixed Clint with a stern eye. “What is going on?”

Clint swallowed, staring back at Thor’s scowl. “They got Bucky,” he blurted out, hands flexing by his thighs. “Bucky and Natasha. Hydra’s got them.”

Thor’s fingers drew a squeak from the leather wrapping around Mjolnir's handle. Clint could taste the electricity in the air, the current pulling the hairs on his arms upright.

“Everyone else, they’re looking,” Clint rushed on, words tripping over themselves. “Cap, Tony, Bruce. I can’t stay here,” he added, suddenly desperate. “I can’t, I have to go find them, okay, I have to find them.”

“I will accompany you,” Thor interrupted, voice grave as he rested his hand on Clint’s shoulder.

Clint’s brain leapt forward. “You know how to fly the quinjets.”

“Indeed,” Thor responded, confusion inching into his face. “Do you not also?”

“Yeah,” Clint said, eyes flickering as the thought. “But I need you to get one ready to go, I gotta get my gear, my bow-”

“And coordinates,” Thor added.

“Ten minutes,” Clint promised. “Gimmie ten minutes and I’ll meet you in the jet, yeah?”

Thor nodded. He caught Clint before Clint could turn away, gazing intently into Clint’s face. “We will bring our family home,” he said, deadly serious. “We will avenge the wrongs done to them on this night.”

“Damn straight,” Clint answered, lightheaded in relief.

Clint darted onto his floor, shedding clothes as he ran for the weapons room. He swore, digging through piles to find his crap. It took him only a minute to shimmy into his gear: black bodysuit with a dark purple accent across the chest, all of it in Tony’s specialty lightweight armor. Arm guards and his archery glove, thick black boots, a tactical belt and harness. He slung his SHIELD issue quiver over his shoulder, already filled with a medley of arrows.

Snatching up one of Bucky’s duffles, he shoveled anything he could think of inside. Spare arrows, guns, ammunition, explosives. He shouldered the bag, and paused, eyeing the bows stacked along the breadth of the wall.

He wanted to take Fury’s other eye for keeping his bow, even as he had to admit the move had more to do with Fury’s game with the WSC than him.

Instead, he hauled down a bow Tony’d developed. On a whim, he stuffed one of their smaller medical kits into the bag and zipped it shut, dropping it at his feet as he summoned a screen.

He’d given Tony shit, once, since the holographic interface could be accessed anywhere and everywhere on the Avenger’s floors. Moments like this, where he didn’t have time to hunt down a console almost made up for the screens in the bathrooms.

Fingers poised over the pale blue light, Clint sucked on his lower lip. Bucky had mentioned a rough heading before he left. Finding the exact coordinates would be as easy as opening the file Tony already had.

He made a face, flexing his fingers. But SHIELD had already crawled all over that location. They weren’t there, would have moved them to a more secure location. Keeping Widow pinned down was difficult enough, but a super soldier with seventy years worth of a grudge?

Unless, that traitorous voice in his head said, unless they turned that super soldier back into their prize watchdog.

“Shut up,” he murmured. “Just shut up. They’re fine, shut up.” Clint keyed in a different command, this one allowing him to call up a mirror of the displays open in the lab, muttering a thank you to Natasha under his breath.

File after file opened before him, so Tony either hadn’t figured out Nat knew that code, or he didn’t care. There was too much to look through, the files resembling a waterfall. He blew out a breath and keyed in several more commands, managing to narrow down his search of their search. Four screens remained as the rest winked out as one.

Clint scanned them rapidly, chewing on his knuckle.

All four screen flashed, a brilliant blinking red. A box of text appeared, overlapping them as it transcribed what Jarvis said to Tony.

A wicked, vicious grin spread across Clint’s face. Jabbing a finger at the screen, he gave a harsh, near hysterical bark of laughter. Natasha had managed to get into the enemy’s system. She’d pulled a data drop, which meant she’d corrupted everything connected to the terminal she’d used.

It also meant he had her coordinates.

“Holy shit,” he whispered, full of savage glee. Natasha was free and fighting back. If she didn’t already have Bucky, she would soon. “Fuck, I love you, Nat.”

He made it to the hanger in nine minutes.


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bucky's glad they've managed to escape and all, but he's not sure he can handle what comes next.

As the door snicked open, Bucky shifted down into a crouch. He slipped through into the relentless darkness the moment he had enough clearance, keeping his back to the wall. With both handguns emptied and ditched, the rifle lost, only the knife remained. It whispered free from its sheath on his thigh, his gaze fruitlessly dancing down either side of the hall. Closing his eyes, Bucky concentrated on his hearing, but the results were the same. Nothing.

Natasha hesitated in the door, thin, baby blue lines flaring to life, outlining her curves and pooling inside long sticks in her palms. The light seemed to blaze in the otherwise midnight corridor, enough for Bucky to make out her grimace before the light cut out.

Her irritated sigh faded under the quiet whine of her Widow Bites. The sound slapped him in the face, and he jerked before he could control the reaction, grateful the dark prevented her from seeing his instinctive recoil. The electrically charged bracelets she wore sounded too much like the taser Goon’d enjoyed so much. He swallowed and blew out a breath, rolling his shoulders out.

She moved down the hall, pressing close enough for Bucky to feel her hand on his bare chest. He pressed himself back, closer to the wall, ostensibly to give her room to pass. In reality, her hand meant her bracelets, and they were too close. Pressing his mouth into a thin line, Bucky padded after her, grimly admitting he’d have to work on his reactivity before it became a liability.

Easing down the hall soundlessly thanks to decades as an unwilling reaper, Bucky kept his body as loose as he could with both arms partially out in front of him. Clint’s voice murmured in the back of his head, the same teasing he’d heard dozens of times. _Don’t make sense how you go so loose limbed right before a fight, man, not when your murder strut’s so epic during a fight. Stomp, stomp, motherfucker, Bucky’s here!_

Nat’s fingers closed briefly around his elbow, a flash and gone again, but enough to halt his progress. Trusting her implicitly, he shifted, sliding one leg back to make his chest a smaller target and widen his stance for balance. The knife came up higher, still held tight in a basic hammer grip: blade out, point up, hand fisted around the hilt with his thumb over his fingers. It gave him a little extra reach, but not as much maneuverability. It’d do for now.

Then, he heard it, the soft scrape of cloth that he’d missed before, too caught up in the memory of Clint’s voice like a fool. He froze, listening hard, Natasha a long, rigid line at his side. A click broke the silence and he dropped to his knees, yanking Nat down with him as gunfire sprayed above their heads.

Phase two had found them. “Night viz?” Nat murmured, her breath tickling his ear as she shifted to cover his back.

“No shit.”

“Weapons down, wrists behind your head, cross ‘em.” The voice was female, cocky and full of easy authority.

Something hard pressed into Bucky’s thigh, Nat’s fingertips pressing in a beat later. Bucky slammed his eyes closed, canting his head away from her as his heart kicked up a fuss. He felt her stand, the air displaced in a rush. Starlight burst behind his eyelids as she activated her suit. Several people swore and Bucky grinned. Wind brushed across his face as Widow launched herself forward, taking advantage of the momentary distraction.

After a count of three, Bucky surged after her, letting the light from her suit get far enough away not to blind him, but close enough to help him in his own battle.

Nat moved with quicksilver grace, the blue of her suit pirouetting along the walls beyond the knot of bodies moving for Bucky. They fanned out in a line, cutting him off. Bucky brought his hands up by his face, knife still upright in his fist, and bent his knees slightly. There were only six of them facing him, at least four with guns, although knives were obvious from the glinting along their legs.

Once upon a time, Bucky Barnes — arrogant, smug prick that he was — would have been running off at the mouth. Now, as one of them called out, “Hands, Soldier,” Bucky wasn’t inclined to waste air on taunts, and he didn’t have Clint to do it for him, either. Instead, Bucky dove, uncoiling like a snake, his knife extended and primped to bite.

Two shots rang out, one close enough for Bucky to feel the heat pass his face. But guns were tricky things. Too close to your target, and they became useless, the bullet more likely to strike a friendly than the mark.

His knife arced through empty air as the enemy combative fell back. The half healed gash along his stomach burned as Bucky twisted, the knife scoring a line across someone’s protective vest. It left his back exposed. Air burst from his lungs in a rush as the closest operative slammed the butt of his rifle down between Bucky’s shoulders. The blow drove him to his knees, and Bucky didn’t fight it. He shifted, lashing out with one leg to topple the man who’d struck him as he sliced out once more with the blade, winning a yowl as it caught another man’s calf.

Ducking movement, he rolled out of the tight knot of people to regain his footing. Then he flipped the knife, catching it to wield it like an ice pick: blade down along his forearm, edge out, with his thumb curled over the butt of the hilt. His reach might not be as long, but his options were now wide open.

Some part of him, the darker bit he ignored, filled with a savage, feral glee. He’d missed this. The realization left him wrongfooted and sick to his stomach. Had he enjoyed this vicious dance before they’d turned him into Frankenstein's Monster? Or was the satisfaction in his veins as foreign as the arm they’d burned onto his body?

Two men came at him as the rest tried to circle around behind him. Bucky fell into a fast rhythm, riding that careful line between skill and adrenaline as he punched, parried, slashed and stabbed. A third man tried to sidle up and Bucky dropped again, letting a blow fly over his head as he buried his blade in the man’s gut.

An arm curled around his throat from behind even as the injured enemy attempted to stagger back. Bucky’s knife opened a wide gash as he wrenched it free. Rather than waste time maneuvering the knife, Bucky reached up with his bionic arm and wrapped metal fingers around the elbow pinning him in place.

He crushed it with brutal efficiency, hardly taking note when the limb fell away with a shriek. Bucky spun, angling his wrist, and let his knife tear the man’s throat out.

He fell into another swift exchange of blows, the number of opponents constantly changing. One of them relying on their legs, the longer reach making it difficult for Bucky to do more than block as he tried to keep his back covered. A body slammed into him from the side, and rode him down to the floor. Something landed heavily on his wrist and his fingers spasmed, the knife skittering away.

Hands fisted in his hair as he fought to get his body in a position to respond. They slammed his head back into the floor, stars exploding inside his eyes for a beat. A knee ground itself into the slice along his stomach and he hissed, arching up into the contact to free the arm pinned underneath him. A body draped itself over his legs, a third sitting over his hips as voices shouted unintelligibly. Lashing out, Bucky caught someone across the mouth with the back of his metal fist. It unseated the body enough for Bucky to thrust him off his stomach, into the body scrambling for his flesh arm.

Removing the two on his legs took less than a breath. He struggled to his feet, breathing in deliberate, measured pants. Adrenaline sapped the body’s reserves, he needed to keep himself from tipping over that edge and wearing himself out too early.

Air shifted on the left and Bucky ducked, a faint blue shine highlighting the arc of a blade slicing through where he’d been. Bucky spun on his heel, surging upright with his palm extended out. The heel of his hand landed on the man’s nose when Bucky overestimated his height, and blood gushed forth to cover his hand. He let the blow carry his arm out past the man’s face, straightening the limb so he could curl it and slam his elbow into the back of the man’s head as he cried out and clutched at his face.

A bullet glanced off Bucky’s metal arm, and he threw himself away before he could be sure the first body was down for good. He couldn’t see Nat. The light from her suit vanished all at once. In the time it took for him to curse, a fist slammed into his chin, the blow sending him reeling back several steps. Quick to take advantage of his momentarily stunned state, more bodies pressed close. He turned, too slow to dodge to blow to his ribs, or the foot to his gut.

Somewhere along the line, he’d lost count of his attackers. He didn’t know how many were down, how many were left. Stupid, so stupid.

Without Natasha’s shifting ghost light, Bucky’s eyes were useless. He closed them, relying on instinct and his other senses. He caught the next attempt at a kick, wrenching the body off its last leg and hurling it down to the floor. Swiftly, he bent down and ran his fingers along the downed frame. He liberated the man’s knife, slashing the body’s throat before turning towards the sound of footsteps and hurling it down the hall.

Pain ripped across the outside of his thigh and his leg crumpled. Bucky clamped an automatic hand around the wound. More bullets dug their way into the wall behind him and Bucky tucked himself into a ball, rolling out of the way.

As he pulled himself back to his unsteady feet, Nat’s light flickered back on in time to reveal another black-clad body hurtling toward him, blade raised. Bucky managed to catch his wrist with his forearm, forcing the knife away. He drew back his cybernetic arm, but was knocked off his feet by a boot in his lower back. Bucky tried to control the fall, but ended up landing heavily on his belly, the man riding his back quick to loop his arms under Bucky’s arms and behind his neck.

“Help me get him up,” the man urged his fellows, and Bucky went deadweight. It took three of them to haul him upright, carefully avoiding his gleaming left arm. A fist collided with his cheek, another to his gut. Bucky let it happen, letting them think him helpless.

Dizziness stole his breath and for a moment, Buck wondered if this bid to look cowed was more reality than fiction.

Another blow to his stomach and the assailant stepped back, seemingly content as Bucky groaned.

In an eyeblink, Bucky dropped to his knee and leaned forward, hands reaching behind himself. The move broke the hold on his upper body, and sent the idiot sprawling over his shoulder. Seamlessly, Bucky rose to his feet, metal hand driving out, fingers stiff, to bury in the vulnerable flesh of the closest throat, his super serum and mechanical arm giving him the strength to spear the man’s trachea, ripping it free in a gruesome, bloody arc. He threw it away, turning to the next target even as the last man’s knees crumbled.

Ten figures remained standing. He stalked down the hall closer to them, putting more force behind each step to keep his body on target. This bunch had already proven to be made of harder stuff than the first batch downstairs, but the way they regrouped and left room for one another meant they’d trained together for a long, long time.

They didn’t wait for him to reach them. Instead, they poured down the hall like angry, black bees. He threw punch after punch, as swiftly as he could, and most dodged, dancing just out of his unsteady reach. Two or three blows connected, the target not fast enough to get out of the way in time, but the enemy slid away from the sloppy follow up.

Bucky battled his rage, trying to swallow it back down so he could think. These men worked well together, anticipating one another’s movements. They had a common goal in their shifting footwork, if he could just…

They were trying to box him in.

His foot nudged a knife, forgotten on the floor. He scooped it back up. The operative closest to him on the right tried to take advantage of his distraction, raising the butt of his rifle high, driving it towards Bucky’s skull. Bucky dodged, nearly tripping over his own legs as he tried to spin on his heel. He lurched back, closer to the enemy and punched out with the fist holding the blade. The knife scored deeply into the man’s face. A shift of his wrist and Bucky used the hard, rounded end of the weapon to knock the man unconscious with a hit to the temple.

Pain exploded in his own skull and he staggered. A second blow to the back of his head sent him sprawling. Stars consumed his vision. He stumbled to his feet, teetering on the edge of collapse for one endless moment. Hazily, he realized they had managed to close around him. He swore, voice slurring past his teeth. At least he hadn’t dropped his weapon.

Three came at him, too many for him to keep track of with his head still reeling. Blood seeped from a long slice to his forearm when he misjudged the trajectory of a knife. He growled, shaking his head in an attempt to clear it. He staggered to the side, his balance shifting away like the tide. A fist buried itself in his ear, and he reeled back, eyes regaining focus through sheer force of will. Bucky blocked the next two blows, losing his own knife when he buried it too deeply between someone’s ribs.

But as the seconds ticked past, each one seeming to last centuries, the more his limbs grew weak and wobbly, his stance incapable of withstanding a puff of wind. His body trembled, his stomach roiled and rebelled, his head screamed and _son of a bitch_ , that hadn’t been a bullet to his leg.

It’d been a fucking dart.

A foot snapped out of the abyss and collided with his knee, knocking him down on his ass. Whatever it was this time didn’t seem to mess with his head too much, but the physical responses were all but nonexistent. Bucky slapped weakly at the hands planted on his chest, but found them pinned almost absently.

Those hands hauled him up, a set on either side of him, keeping him steady and upright. “Give it up, Widow,” came that same woman’s voice, this time dark and pleased and right next to him. “He’s mine.”

Bucky’s bones might feel hollow and brittle, but the need to fold down into himself seemed to be receding. He kept his head raised, his mind whirling as the pair bracketing him frog marched him further down the hall. Nat’s blue light didn’t move, frozen in the center of five figures as she watched Bucky’s approach. Bucky estimated more than a dozen bodies lay scattered between them.

Pride bubbled up in his chest. Pride and gratitude and a fierce determination to make sure Natasha didn’t need to pull his weight, too. He let himself sag a little harder onto the bodies beside him.

Natasha’s expression never changed. “Game’s over, Widow.” Green eyes slid from Bucky’s face to the speaker and back, with only the slightest twitch of her eyebrow to show her irritation. For his part, Bucky waggled his own. She stood from her crouch, letting the pale energy drain from her weapons before she dropped them.

“And the rest.”

Eyes still trained on Bucky, Natasha slid the Widow Bites off her wrists and set them down. She moved to shut down the power to her suit and the woman spoke again. “No bullshit, Widow, or I shoot him.” Natasha’s gaze slid down Bucky’s body, to where something small pressed into his hip. Bucky refused to acknowledge the pressure or the worry in Nat’s gaze when she met his eyes. Instead, Nat turned a bland, unimpressed look on his captor.

“He’ll heal,” the woman responded. “Eventually.” Nat’s mouth twisted unpleasantly to the side, like she couldn’t help herself. She nodded, and the power in her suit died, taking the light with it. Her belt stayed put. No one made a fuss, and Bucky huffed out a tiny laugh.

The woman’s hand shifted on his arm, drawing away. A sharp crackle spiked into the night and she said, “Got ‘em. Lights.”

Bucky managed to squeeze his eyes closed just before the bulbs blazed back to life, but he found himself trying to double over and hide his face anyway. It _hurt_ , after so long in the dark. The hands holding him up gave him a rough shake, an irritated man’s voice mumbling insults on his left.

When he managed to open them, he met Natasha’s intense gaze. A quirk of his mouth eased some of the tension in her frame. “Let’s go,” barked the woman who appeared to be in charge, slipping her hand back around Bucky’s elbow. The pressure against his hip shifted, became a cold dig in the skin just below his ribs. She jerked him around, the man on his left hurrying to keep pace as she set off at a brisk march down the hall.

Behind him, Natasha deliberately let her ridiculous heels click against the tile. He could keep track of her by sound alone as the rest of the group herded her behind his own escort.

Their captors clearly expected Buck to be out of commission for a while, loopy and useless from the drugs which were supposed to be in his system… except the dart had been a glancing blow, rather than a dead hit. Enough to make the world tilt sideways for a while, but his system, already exposed to something similar, worked hard to mitigate the effects. Using his condition to secure compliance from the Widow struck him as arrogant. They hadn’t even cuffed her, just assumed she’d stick close, in her prison made of bodies.

What the hell kind of offshoot was this? The Hydra he’d endured so many years of mindless servitude under hadn’t managed to last so long by being this foolish.

“Where’re we going, anyway?” Natasha asked, breaking the silence and Bucky’s train of thought.

The woman snorted, glancing over her shoulder.

“Can’t blame a girl for trying.”

“I can,” the woman responded. “You killed half my men.”

“I’ve killed a lot of men,” Natasha responded, her voice dropping into a dark, flirty tone. “They weren’t very good… fighters.”

“He gets the chair,” came a male voice, and Bucky would have laughed if he could’ve. It’d probably taken one look, one very poor but suggestive pause for that idiot to open his mouth. Most likely, that one would be her first target, the easiest, weakest link. Too busy looking at her to be paying attention to her. “You’re—”

“Shut the fuck up, Josh,” The woman snapped. Whatever she wanted to add next turned into a grunt as Bucky let himself sag.

“No, no, no,” he started mumbling, only partially for show. “Not the chair.” His body dipped, knees brushing the floor while they tried to hold onto him.

Natasha rushed forward, crying out his name. From his twisted vantage point, half on the floor, he watched as she let one of the men get close. She tripped over him as he reached for her, sprawling over Bucky’s feet, her hips and, more importantly, her belt, landing right near his hand.

“Idiots,” the woman snarled, yanking on Bucky’s arm. “Grab her. _Hold her_.”

Bucky slumped harder, his fingers dipping into the little pocket closest to him. They closed on something small and oblong as Natasha was manhandled back to her feet. Red hair flipped over her shoulders, settling to frame an unapologetic expression better suited to one of those gossipy biddies his mother hadn’t been able to stand.

“He’s hurt,” she sulked, letting her mouth purse on the barest hint of a pout.

The woman wasn’t impressed, but Bucky could see two men soften towards Natasha as she popped out a hip. He had to close his eyes briefly to prevent himself from rolling them. Where had they picked these guys up? The schoolyard? If Clint were here, he’d have blown it all to hell laughing.

“Sarkissian is going to flay you alive,” hissed the woman, turning back to Bucky. “That is the _Black Widow_ , not some foolish girl with a pretty face. I will remove your dick if it happens again.”

Natasha caught his eye, tilting her head just the tiniest amount while her eyebrows twitched up. _Well?_ The world had settled, more or less. Now was as good a time as any.

He slid his thumb into the depression, and pressed. As he was shoved upright and further away from the stairs leading up, Bucky counted back from five.

Four.

He let himself list towards the left.

Three.

Natasha’s heels went silent.

Two.

Behind him, someone gave a soft gurgle.

_Boom_. The floor shook, a furious burst of energy, hard enough to knock them all aside like bowling pins. Bucky’s angle meant his body crashed into the man on his left. They fell in a heap. Threading his hands through the man’s dirty blond hair, Bucky slammed his head into the tile twice, leaving him to his own pooling blood for a pillow.

He scrambled to his feet, barely dodging Nat’s flying leg as she took down another operative. His fist lashed out as her leg was replaced with an enraged face. He landed an uppercut to the man’s chin, hard enough to force the body up onto his toes. A solid palm strike to the chest and the goon went flying back, taking a second body down with him.

Pain brought him to his knees all at once, and he roared, fingers clawed. The bullet sat, heavy and hot, just beside his shin bone. Tears gathered, blinding him until he blinked them away. He took a moment, had to breathe through the shockwaves. God, Clint was going to kill him with his bare hands when he made it home like this.

A thin cool snake coiled around his throat, pulling taut under his ears even as his mouth dropped open on a shout. The garrotte cut off his air. It closed off his blood supply. He had a bare handful of seconds at most.

_No_ , he thought, frantic. _This_ _is_ _not_ _how_ _this_ _ends_. Another heave and Bucky’s body arched up against the hard frame behind him, his legs scrabbling uselessly at the floor. His fingers dug at his throat, desperate to burrow under the wire as his pulse fluttered madly. Mouth open, eyes streaming, Bucky fought like an animal — without thought or finesse, only a wild need to get away.

_Clint, Clint, fuck, Clint —_

Spots sparked in his vision, blurring into a spiral as the world began to grow dark. His face felt huge, bloated and red. His human fingertips tore and bled, while the metal of his bionic fingers caught on the wire and tore open the abused flesh of his throat. His eyes felt like they were being scooped from his head, his heart nearly bursting in his chest as his lungs heaved and heaved and —

He was never, never going to see Clint again.

A red haze filled his eyes, covering the world in blood and shadows. Something clattered, and the garrotte yanked him back several steps. Bucky’s heart was going to escape through the hole in his leg, his lungs were screaming, his limbs too heavy to move. The cloud flashed white and a great spike of lightning erupted inside his skull.

Ash and static filled his mouth as the pressure against his throat gave between one heartbeat and the next. Bucky collapsed, coughing raggedly. The red cloud in his vision seemed to shred and fade as he struggled to gulp down air without choking himself. Another burst of sound — gun, he thought, that was a gun — and then the hall fell into stillness, broken only by Bucky’s involuntary spasms.

Hands, small and firm landed on his shoulders. Instinctively, Bucky thrust out with the heel of his metal palm, catching the body in the chest and sending it — her — skidding several feet back.

Widow picked herself up gingerly, in stereo, hand on her upper ribs. The double image of her grimaced, but picked their way back over the downed bodies. “Sorry,” she murmured as she dropped down beside him. Her face merged back into one, only to split into two, three overlapping expression. Bucky had to close his eyes. “Just me, promise.”

Her hands settled on his shoulders again, gently and deftly running along his frame. She hissed in sympathy at the hole in his leg. Soft fingers trailed through his sweaty hair, pulling lightly until he opened his eyes. “I’m sorry,” she repeated, her mouth twisted unhappily. “I had to.”

“Whaaaa?” He couldn’t focus, couldn’t make sense of the way her mouth moved. Shadows littered her face. Bruises, he realized. They smudged along her jaw, the curve of her cheekbone, along the column of her neck. Bucky wanted to tilt her head back, get a better idea of the damage, but the muscles in his body kept seizing.

Nat sighed, and worked an arm underneath him, nudging him upright. He helped as much as he could, twitching and jerking as he tried to comply. “ There’s a powder I can electrify. Enough to —” she gestures at the bodies lying slumped along the hall. “But I didn’t think you’d react this badly.”

“I’ll live,” he ground out. “They dead?”

“No. One of Tony's toys: the zap activates it, sends them into a temporary stasis. Cloud burns off, no muss, no fuss.” She managed to get him upright, which seemed to ease the violent shaking of his limbs. One arm wrapped around Bucky’s waist as she took too much of his weight. “C’mon, Barnes, work with me here. We’re under a time crunch now.”

He tried to speed up, and nearly sent her careening into the wall. Nat sent him a flat look, blowing her hair back out of her face.

“Why d’you get all the cool toys, anyway?”

“He likes me best, obviously,” Nat huffed as they eased around the corner, the stairwell now in sight.

“Nah,” Bucky murmured. “Pretty sure that’s Stevie.”

“And yet...”

Bucky could have sworn he heard her smirk as she slipped from under his arm to shove the door open. He stiffened his knees, trying to stop swaying. He shook her off when she tried to plaster herself back along his side. It took far more effort than he would ever admit to, but he managed the twenty steps to the main level unassisted.

“Thought you were kidding about the brewery.”

“Nope.” Natasha popped her lip. “You doing okay?” Rather than respond, Bucky strode deeper into the building. He might not be able to walk a straight line, but he’d be damned if he didn’t walk out under his own power.

It was dark, with too many places to hide. From the stale taste of dust in the air, the place had been shuttered for ages, but giant barrel type structures remained. He huffed, looking back at the unassuming door he’d just come through.

Kidnapped and held in a secret hide out underneath a booze factory. Clint wouldn’t ever let him live this down. The bootleg jokes would be never ending.

He couldn’t wait.

Natasha snagged him by the wrist, causing him to tense, eyes scanning the gloom. “Relax. Door’s this way. We need to get to the car and get the hell out of here before we let the boom happen.

He turned back to her, mouth open to respond. Whatever he meant to say died on his tongue as his vision spiraled into darkness. “Son of a bitch,” he heard himself say, as though through a long tube. “Son of a...” 

* * *

_  
Bucky slammed the last shot back with practiced ease, barely noticing the burn. He set the cup back on the table and flicked the bottom, flipping it neatly onto its rim._

_“Suck it, Barton.”_

_Clint was two cups behind him, swaying slightly. The usual assortment of bandages decorated his too-pale skin; one just under the left eye, another on his chin, and a third peeking out from under the collar of his shirt. As he went to set his own cup back down, Bucky noticed another, flesh colored bandage covering the upper part of his forearm._

_“Aw, fuck you, Robocop.” Clint’s voice was a little too loud, words slurring together. He missed the table completely, and ended up pouting adorably at his own feet where the cup landed._

_Bucky had long since disregarded the rules of the ridiculous drinking game Clint came up with— mainly because he was pretty sure Clint kept changing them. He hadn’t even bothered to ask about the three vertical hoop like things at one end of the table, preferring to flick paper footballs through them at random._

_Clint had shown up at Bucky’s door with an overbright, manic smile earlier and said, “Wanna see how much I can drink before my aim gets funky?”_

_Well, Tequila meant Clint was beyond drunk. Even Bucky felt fuzzy at the edges, after Clint slipped something extra into his bottle. But as he watched, Clint managed to send a paper airplane sailing straight through the middle hoop, even as the man was steadily listing farther and farther to the side._

_“You know I can’t get flat-out drunk, right?”_

_“Not the point, man,” Clint said, speaking slowly so the words were clear as he turned to give bucky a strange, intense stare. “Not the point.”_

* * *

 

So much for making it out under his own power. Classical violin wove around the soft notes of a piano, the music haunting and sweet, enough to lull him into a sense of calm. He let himself drift, peaceful and pain-free for a change. The piano faded, to be replaced by a something else. Maybe a cello.

He opened his eyes, blinking at the back of the driver’s seat. A blanket covered him as he lay on the backseat of the SUV. There was an open backpack by his face. He shifted just enough to shove a hand inside. Clothes. Relief washed over him in a wave, heady and strong. He could change into something familiar, something _his_ , instead of keeping the pants of a dead man.

“Bucky?”

He grunted in response, his brain tied up in knots as he eased upright. Or maybe that was just the headache pulsing behind his eyes. Thankfully, Natasha left it at that. He spared her a quick glance – she’d changed into civis at some point, in a sweater that he’d last seen on Tony. Outside the window, street lights broke up the night. He didn’t know where they were, and found he didn’t have it in him to care.  
  
They were out. He was going home.

Home. There’s a word that brought up too many emotions.

He shoved his thoughts aside with a rough push of his hands, feeling as though he’d gone a dozen rounds with an angry Steve. Everything hurt. Dragging a hand down his face and irritably pushing his hair out of his eyes, he rummaged through the pack, finding a handful of granola bars and a change of clothes, including a hooded sweater. They drove under another lamppost, and Bucky stared at the sweater in his hands.

Emblazoned across the purple chest, there was a thin, dark arrow. His last memory-dream drifted to the front of his mind, Clint’s stupid, drunk grin and all.

This struck him as a cheap knock off of irony. He’d left the tower thinking that maybe some time away would be good, would help him square away how he felt playing second string. That it would help him clear his own head, find the line between his wants and Clint’s needs.

Instead he’d been repeatedly drugged and his unconscious mind latched onto Clint, over and over. Every tiny interaction, every tiny look, or touch. Like Clint was his fucking drug of choice or something.

He stripped out of the grimy pants and boots, pausing at the neat, stainted bandage encircling one calf. At some point while he was out, Nat must've dug the bullet free. He flexed the leg, pleased that the muscle responded, a heavy, dull ache making itself known as the fibers worked on knitting back together, deep inside the limb.

The pleasure of clean clothes turned out to be minimal as he mulled over all the memories he had chosen to drown himself in. Steve and the others hovered at the perimeter, but in the center of all of them, in full technicolor glory, was one Clint Barton.

Bucky rolled down the window and chucked the stolen pants out into the night, irrationally pleased as they vanished. The boots would have to stay, since he didn’t have spare footwear.

The wind through the open window seemed to melt into the latest melody, twining around the piano and the wooden flute. Bucky stared out into the darkness, watching shapes as they faded behind the car. He found himself remembering the first time he’d laid eyes on Clint Barton.

Clint had padded into the room, sleep-rumpled and hollow looking, a walking juxtaposition in stained sweats and threadbare tee, white-knuckling the bow in his bandaged fist. Heavily lidded, exhausted blue eyes took in the entire room between one step and the next, but gave no indication he’d seen anything. He never so much as paused on his way to the kitchen.

The man had slid back into the room as soundlessly as he’d left, slowing only to drop a mug on the table closest to Bucky, his mouth fluctuating between a smirk and a flat line. Clint didn’t spare the tight knot of his teammates a glance, just clutched his own mug closer to his chest and disappeared.

If the mug hadn’t sat beside him, Bucky might have thought he’d imagined the entire thing.

As it was, Bucky found himself trying to catalogue Clint. Dull, tired eyes, deep lines etched into his face, the way he couldn’t seem to quell the urge to smile, even sarcastically. How his shoulders remained slumped but his steps were silent, and the way his gaze had caught at the raw edges of Bucky’s. Something there recognized and reached out to Bucky, a mirror of the cracks marring his own soul. The man had been damaged, broken. He’d survived.

Like Bucky had survived.

He hadn’t shied away from Bucky. He’d looked Bucky dead in the eye, and that made him more interesting than anything Bucky could remember just then. It seemed to awaken something inside Bucky, seemed to quiet the all-encompassing ache, the self-loathing, the guilt. It was something new, something outside himself, something not Steve, who was his own coil of knots inside Bucky’s head.

Before he knew it, he’d inched his way closer to the mug, and scooped it up with a surreptitious glance at Steve and company. He smelled it, and felt his shoulders unwind. Hot chocolate burst over his tongue, just the right temperature and sweeter than anything he’d had in what might have been a millennia.

It made him feel lighter, cleaner than he had in… forever.

He’d found himself orbiting Clint, fascinated but unobtrusive. Piecing together Clint’s story put him on a mission to catalogue the man’s tells, and facades, even as he’d hidden from him, terrified of the echo inside Clint, the spaces that resonated with Bucky’s broken, battered pieces. He’d envied Clint’s masks, his resilience, his stubbornness, even as he’d kept as far away as he could, hiding around corners to avoid his knowing eyes.

But the more he watched, the less he could remember why he needed to stay away. Closer and closer he’d found himself drawn into Clint’s gravity until he couldn’t take it anymore, and let himself collide.

And he’d never looked back.

But stalking him into a friendship didn’t mean Clint loved him. Bucky was fucked up beyond belief, he knew and accepted that. Knew Clint wasn’t much better.

Didn’t make the hole under his sternum any easier to handle when it pointed out Bucky’s selfishness, or how Clint kept him distant when he needed Bucky most.

When Bucky thought Clint needed him most. Bucky snorted. Arrogance.

He was going to end up going round-robin until he jumped off a cliff, at this rate.

The movement outside the car slowed, allowing his eyes to make out trees instead of blurs. Natasha maneuvered the vehicle into a parking lot, old and cracked from the bumps underneath. A single street lamp tried to beat back the night with its flickering bulb. The dash clock read 2:34 a.m., which explained the empty, dark windows of the store Natasha parked in front of.

She killed the engine and unbuckled, swiveling in her seat to watch him. After trying and failing to meet her eyes, Bucky crawled into the front passenger seat, careful not to bump his leg. “Thank you,” he said, gruff. “For… everything.”

Nat gave a brisk nod, shifting to lean against her door, keeping him in sight.

They sat in silence, Bucky avoiding her level gaze by staring out the windshield at nothing. Even his thoughts quieted down, afraid she would be able to read them on his face.

The Black Widow possessed patience in spades, and Bucky couldn’t hide behind the Soldier’s mask. Not so soon after the Soldier consumed him. Maybe not ever again. So the hush continued, the first spot of tranquility Bucky’d found in days. Until Natasha decided to push.

“I’m not good at emotions,” she murmured, dropping her head to watch her own hands. The attempt was meant to either protect herself, or coddle him. He appreciated it, regardless. “I can read a man’s intent from miles away,” she continued, smoothing one thumb over the nails of her free hand. “I can manipulate that intent, use it for my own ends, and make him believe it to be his own idea.”

Bucky turned, angling himself to stare out the window past her head. After a beat, she looked up and caught his eye. “I can tell you, down to the smallest detail, what an specific expression means. I can make my face, my body convey anything I need, in an eyeblink. But I am not good at emotions. At… _my_ emotions.”

Bucky blinked. This might be the most vulnerable he’d ever seen her, and it was still circular.

She made a face, irritation in the way she sat back and ran a hand through her hair. When she didn’t continue, Bucky said, “Sounds like you’re tellin’ me I can’t trust you. And I just bet my life on that, so.”

“No,” she sighed. “I’m telling you that I am the wrong person for this.”

“Okay,” Bucky responded, confused. “But what the hell is ‘this’?”

Crossing her arms, she called him unflattering things in Russian. In the same tongue he said, “That is not clearing this up for me, just so you know.”

“Fine,” she snapped, switching back to English. “I am a jealous person. I do not share my things well, I’ve never needed to— to learn to interact with people on a ‘real’ level,” she made a set of quotes with one hand, the other worrying at her cotton cuff. “And then Clint came along. And through him, Phil. And years later, Pepper, Tony, the Avengers.” Nat pinned him with her gaze. “You.”

“I’m sorry,” he said, awkward and uncertain, pulling his hands inside the soft, purple sleeves of his Hawkeye hoodie. He was pretty sure he knew where this was going, and didn’t like that he hadn’t noticed. Out of all of them, he should have. After all, hadn’t it been him and Steve against the world? And then when it had been Captain America and his Troop of Sidekicks, and Bucky had been thrust into a corner, alone… yeah. He hadn’t handled that well.

“No, idiot. Listen. I’ve learned to tolerate all of you, learned to care for so many people, learned to open myself up to the hurt they could cause, but through it all, Clint was my first.”

That made Bucky sit up, his mouth dropping open on a, “ _What_?”

“Men,” Nat muttered into her hands before glaring up at him. “First _friend_ , you moron. Clint never looked at me and saw me as a body, not like that. That’s _how_ he became my friend. He valued me as a person. But it’s still hard, sometimes, to remember that he is not all I have, that _I’m_ not all he has, after Coulson.”

Bucky opened his mouth again, to apologize, and Natasha shushed him with a brutal slice of her hand through the air. “Still no. _I_ owe _you_ the apology, not the other way around. You didn’t try to take him from me, I knew that, and I still kept myself distant. Told myself it was to give Clint time with you. But what I did was pull away from you both, from Clint, when he needed me most, because I thought you were already taking my place.”

This time she silenced him by slapping her palm over his mouth. “He’s a fucking disaster on a good day. There haven’t been very many good days in a long time. I made the wrong call, and it hurt him. It hurt you. I’m sorry.” She took her hand away, and settled back against her door, watching Bucky expectantly.

“Nat… what the hell?”

“I watch, because I don’t know how not to. You two danced around each other for weeks. Then you were inseparable. Then something happened and you started staring at him like he’d gutted you, and the bags were back under his eyes.” She leaned forward, resting her hands lightly on his wrists. “What happened?”

And after her confession, what else could he do but respond? No, he admitted to himself. He’d wanted to ask her for longer than just now, knew that if anyone could tell him where he stood, it was Natasha. Heart pounding in his throat, Bucky found himself talking before he’d realized his mouth had opened.

“I don’t know. I don’t _know_ — he has nightmares. Talks in his sleep, tells Phil how much he —” Bucky couldn’t make himself say the words. Couldn’t make it more real. “But he won’t fucking _talk_ to me, lies through his goddamn teeth with a _smile_.” Bucky’s hands tugged at his hair as he hunched in on himself. All of the calm he’d found, the resolution to confront Clint about his behaviors, the confidence that Bucky was _important_ , gone between one breath and another. His voice grew louder, faster, as he let it all spill out of him. Maybe like a poison, the wound could heal once it had bled off.

“He’ll sleep for days and then go days without sleeping. Lives off coffee and sneaks into that simulator to stab Loki’s face over and over again.” He gave a hoarse laugh. “D’you know, I think he’s got Jarvis keepin’ an eye on me, but the second I try to even put my arms around him, he bolts? Shuts me down so fast I'm surprised his head don’t spin off his scrawny neck.”  
He stopped, chest heaving, the heels of his palms digging into his eye sockets.

In a quiet, shattered voice he said, “I don’t even know if he means it when he touches me. Don’t know if he, he fucking _cares_ , and it’s eating me up inside. He doesn’t _trust_ me. Doesn’t seem to _want_ me. Why the fuck does he keep letting me touch him?” Bucky broke off, swallowing as he looked up at Natasha with wet eyes.

“I’m a replacement. A placeholder. Fuck, Nat, I’m his goddamn _penance_.”

“No,” Natasha cut in, her voice furious and implacable. “ _No_ , Bucky. That’s not true.”

“Nat,” he started, weary and empty after spilling all the ugly thoughts in his head. He couldn't handle platitudes, not right then.

“No, you listen to me, James Barnes. _That_ _is_ _not_ _true_.” Her eyes blazed in her face, mouth thin. She nearly vibrated in her seat, hands clenching around Bucky’s wrists. “He loves you so much it’s fucking stupid,” she snarled at him. “You hear me? _Stupid_.”

Bucky felt like he’d been shoved off a mountain all over again. Except he didn’t lose an arm on impact, no, he splintered apart into a thousand miniscule shards. Natasha eased him across the gearshift, cradling his head against her collarbone as he clutched at her.

No matter how hard he gasped, the tears wouldn’t come.

“I’m broken,” he said. “Fucked up.”

“So are the rest of us.”

Bucky shook his head, nuzzling harder against her until he’d nearly crawled into her lap. “I wanna keep him,” he whispered. “I just… wanna _keep_ him. Make him smile.”

Strong, slim fingers threaded through the short hairs at the nape of his neck. “You’re both idiots, you know that?”

The dry, no-nonsense words forced a wet laugh from his throat.

“I mean it,” she said, scraping her nails down the back of his neck and up over the crown of his head. “Clint’s a special kind of dumb. You’re just finally paying attention.”

“The hell does that mean?” Bucky slumped against her, soaking in the heat of her slight form, pressing his ear tightly against her chest. Her heart beat in a steady, predictable rhythm. It soothed the rawness inside his head.

“Means he was a sad, depressed fool when I met him, and he’s a sad, depressed fool now. He talks in his sleep? Then he trusts you enough to sleep so deeply he dreams, trusts you to have his back when he’s at his most vulnerable.”

Bucky twitched, hardly daring to breathe as she continued, her clever fingers smoothing along his skin.

“He lies to everyone, because he thinks if anyone sees the ‘real’ Clint, they’ll leave, and Clint can’t handle people leaving. Even though he expects it. Doesn’t think people need to deal with his bullshit, too. Tries to hide it and ignores it until it goes away, but the things he’s seen don’t go away. That’s why he won’t go to you. For him, it’s weakness he can’t afford.”

“But—”

“For _him_ , I said. For the rest of us, he think’s it’s different.”

She paused, taking a deep breath. “He refused therapy,” she added, quietly, like a secret. “That’s why he’s barred from active duty, why SHIELD won’t give him back that bow. He’s supposed to be weaponless until he’s cleared by the shrinks.”

“When I met him,” she continued, “I considered him passively suicidal.” A wounded noise punched from Bucky’s chest, and she held him tight. “He’s a tough one, so it comes and goes, but he’s never been in a good place for too long. He tried, for Phil. But Phil’s a different problem, altogether.”

There was a pause, as she seemed to gather her thoughts. “You’re not a substitute.”

Bucky pulled back, breaking her hold on him. He could feel her heavy eyes as he huddled in on himself in his own seat, his body cold and bereft.

“No matter how much he loved Phil, you’re not his stand-in. Not for Clint. He’s too loyal for that.”

Bucky deflated, his eyes burning at her words. The world seemed to have fallen away, outside of her voice. Hope burned, tentative but fierce, in his chest.

“Maybe at the beginning, he wanted to help, thought if he did a good deed it would even the scales a little, I don’t know. But he never looked at you as a way to fill that empty space. He stuck around, sticks around, because he likes you. Understands you. And you get him, which I think some part of him knows he needs, even if he thinks he doesn't deserve it.”

“After the invasion, after Phil — he shut down. Froze me out. And then you showed up, you know? Believe me or not, you make him better just by being around. He started talking more. Came out during the day. Stopped attacking Steve.”

Nat’s tentative fingertips brushed along his neck, gently urging him up out of his miserable ball. “I meant it when I said Clint’s a special kind of dumb. He puts everything in front of himself. Doesn’t think he’s worth the dirt on your boots, even if you remind him a hundred times a day. Boy’s got scars that are older than I know about, Bucky.”

She tilted his head with a finger on his chin, until he looked at her. “He’s never been okay. But he’s been better. You’re the best thing that’s happened to him in ages, and you don’t even know it. But I _see_ it.”

“I love him,” Bucky croaked, feeling the words down to his core. “I really, really do.”

“Good,” Natasha responded, sounding smug as she settled properly back into her seat. “He’s going to need a lot of that. You need to be ready to deal with more of him trying to push you away.”

It startled Bucky, how those few words seemed to make everything click into place. “Yeah,” he murmured, dazed. “Yeah, I’m not gonna let him do that anymore.” He smiled at her, the emptiness fading into a sense of anticipation.

Clint loved him. He knew it in his bones, had maybe always known.

“Good. Now, stay put and come up with a plan for when he tries to weasel his way out of talking to you. I’ve got a call to make.”


	13. Chapter 13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Clint's not so good at the whole knight in shining thing.

Thor sat in the pilot’s seat, arms crossed and features crumpled as he stared out the plane’s front window.

“Got it!” Clint waved the paper with the coordinates in front of Thor’s face when he didn’t respond. “C’mon, we’re good, I got it, let’s _go_.”

Thor snatched it, gracing Clint with a scowl. Then he turned and entered the information into the plane’s computer as Clint dumped his bag further back in the plane. “Preflight?” Clint asked. He sagged when Thor nodded, his attention still on the systems in front of him.

“Be seated,” Thor said a moment later, gesturing towards to co-pilot seat. “I believe you owe me a tale, shield-brother.”

Clint dropped down, only to stand right back up, irritated with himself. Once he hooked the quiver around the headrest, Clint settled back into his seat. “Storytime,” he mumbled, yanking an arrow free. He needed something to do with his hands. “Yeah, sure. Uh, how about Hansel and Gretel? Always freaked me out.”

He winced at the way Thor turned his head, slow and deliberate, to pin Clint with a look so displeased it was nearly violent. Not his best deflection. Thankfully, Thor relaxed at Clint’s apologetic headbob.

Thor taxied the jet around, lining it up with the section of wall which fell open across the tower. Silence settled between them as Thor maneuvered the plane free of the building and into open air, his face lined with concentration.

“Gotta say,” Clint said, poking himself in the leg with his arrow. “Kinda figured that would be a rougher take off.”

Thor shot him a sideways glance, his eyebrows arched before running his eyes over the plane’s instruments. “I asked the Man of Iron to teach me,” he said, quietly. “I can carry more of you in this than I can with my bare hands, should the need arise.” There was a pause and then, “My manner of speech may differ from yours, but I am no simpleton, Hawkeye.”

Clint flushed. “I didn’t —sorry,” he said. “Point taken.”

After a moment, Thor prompted him, voice going soft but insistent when he said Clint’s name.

“Hey, quick question,” Clint said, skirting the problem as best he could. “Your, uh. Your brother.” The sick, black tundra in his head groaned in response. He flinched hard, bringing a hand up to protect his face. A headache was beginning to pulse, faintly, behind his eyes. Slowly, he let the hand drop back down.

Thor turned his head to search Clint’s face, his eyebrows bunched in confusion. “What of my brother?”

“He’s, y’know, still off in Asgard, right?”

Thor straightened, the stillness of his body reminding Clint of marble statues. He felt bad - carving Loki’s eyes out with a spork might be high on Clint’s list of life goals, but the guy was still Thor’s brother.

Clint knew all about about shitty brothers. His shoulders curled and he drew his legs up onto the chair, huddling around himself.

“I mean, he’s not like, not-there. He’s there? Wherever Daddy decided to put him?” The slimy, frosty lake in his head flared, inching further outward as he spoke. Clint found himself looking for Phil, trying to find the cool, welcoming feeling and coming up empty.

His pulse sped up. Thin tendrils seemed to creep across his skull from Loki’s roots, each one tentative yet persistent. The headache morphed from a distant annoyance to a steady throb.

Swallowing, Clint did his best to concentrate on Phil. His deadpan Dad jokes, the way he’d taught Clint first-aid himself when Clint couldn’t handle the SHIELD approved courses, how gentle his hands were over Clint’s broken ribs even as his eyes radiated fury.

No response. The section of his head Phil had claimed remained an empty, cavernous hole. Clint hid his eyes in his knees, the back of his neck tingling unpleasantly.

“My—” Thor cut himself off with a disgruntled noise. Curiosity led to Clint turning his head so he could see. “Loki endures his punishment, still.” After a beat, Thor leaned forward and slapped on the autopilot. He spun himself free of the seat, and stalked further into the plane.

Clint found himself nodding, unfolding his body as Thor moved out of sight. “But if he wasn’t,” he pressed, ignoring the need to know what, exactly, Loki was enduring. “Would they tell you?” He abandoned the attempt to ‘feed’ Phil, — the thought made him grimace. He’d tried to share food with Phil once, the scandalized eyebrow tilt might have ruined him for life — and found himself trying to visualize shoving the alien sensation slicing through his brain into a box covered in locks. Even in his head, it kept oozing out of the cracks.

When he didn’t get an answer, Clint slid out of his seat, and into the pilot’s, automatically checking the display. He slipped the arrow back into the quiver on the co-pilot’s chair. They were only a few minutes out. Needing something to do, Clint thumbed off the autopilot and wrapped his hands around the yoke. Half his attention remained pointed inside himself, focused on the image of Loki’s poison trapped behind a glass dome.

The ache in his temples seemed to be easing, so it might even be working. Small mercies.

“If Loki were to escape his bonds,” Thor said into the quiet, his cold, hard tone at odds with how he tripped over the word, ‘bonds’, “I would be contacted.” He dropped into Clint’s chair, composed but withdrawn. “He cannot be behind Hydra’s plotting.” Thor sounded brittle now, defeated.

Clint shot him a startled look, losing his grip on the visualization. “What? No. No, I’m pretty sure that’s just shitty humans.” He blinked. “I think? Fuck, I hope so.”

“Then,” Thor asked, talking slowly as he turned to face Clint, “Then, to what end—”

Clint cut off Thor’s question with a slew of his most inventive curses. “You said you did the preflight check!”

“And I did,” Thor responded immediately, puzzled. From the corner of his eye, Clint could see Thor lean forward, his hands hovering over the array of red lights. “Nothing was amiss. Tony himself sees to his planes, there ought to _be_ nothing wrong.”

“Then fucking explain this!” Clint shouted, hands flying over the controls. A new warning popped up on the HUD and Clint groaned, banging his head against the seat behind him. “Aw, jet, no. Don’t do this to me, not _now_.”

Pain surged behind his eyes as Loki took advantage, throwing out thick, snakelike tentacles, forcing them deeper inside Clint’s gray matter in a twisted parody of roots. Clint gasped, tears blurring his vision.

Thor’s hands were steady and sure over the co-pilot’s controls. “I do not understand.”

He blinked rapidly to clear his eyes, ruthlessly slamming down the mental image of a rat trap over the fat worms burrowing in his head. They jerked and retreated — but not far enough. Never far enough. The pain didn’t go away.

“We lost IFF.” Clint ground out, staring at the display. “We lost IFF, the FDL’s down and _that_ fries the TACAN —we’re going really fucking fast, in the goddamn dark, _blind_ and no one knows if we’re a good guy or a bad guy. Picking up an ILS isn’t going to happen, we’re too far from an airstrip and without the IFF that’s probably a good thing. This is— this is not good. Like, four-in-the-morning-drunk-Taco-Bell-run not good.”

“What?”

“Literal shitstorm, Thor.” Clint stared at the display, the dials and knobs and switches and — “I’m gonna die.” Laughter unfurled, something he couldn’t hear but knew was there, an itch he couldn't scratch. “Oh, _fuck_ no.” Almost without his consent, his hands reached up and fisted in his hair, just over the spots that were beginning to burn.

The HUD flickered, and then Tony loomed large across the glass display. Rage sparked in his eyes, and his cheeks burned several shades darker than usual. The tendons in his neck stood out in high relief before being swallowed by the neck of the Iron Man armor.

The sudden change knocked Clint through a loop. He gaped, hands falling away as the burning gave way to irritated wiggling. There were words slithering around his head, muted and buried under layers of muck. Loki wouldn’t stay quiet much longer.

“Thor,” Tony greeted, his voice as even and calm as a lake on a clear day. “Long time no see. How’s Jane? Darcy?”

Clint leaned away in a stupid, fruitless attempt to stay out of the line of fire. He gently pulled back on the yoke, trying to slow the Jet’s progress without causing it to deviate from its course.

The laughing sensation tickled at his jaw, licking down his spine.

“Wanna explain a few things, big guy?” Tony continued, not pausing to let the Aesir reply. “Like, I don’t know, why you stole a jet? I mean. You _fly_. That is a thing you do.”

Thor cleared his throat, glancing meaningfully at Clint, but Tony continued to steamroll over him. “Or _maybe_ why my aforementioned stolen jet just fell off Jarvis’ systems, but the _radar_ found it no problem? Oh, also,” Tony threw a hand out and stepped back, revealing that he’d been so still because he’d been clutching at his helmet. “ _Minor_ detail here, but _why_ the _fuck_ is _Clint_ with you when he’s supposed to be on _voluntary lockdown in Hulk’s box._ ”

Thor blinked, mouth going slack as he looked between Clint and Tony.

Clint slumped forward, careful to avoid touching anything. “Hi, Tony,” he said, tired. “Stop yelling at Thor. You’re just kicking puppies.” The ache in his temples started all over again, icicles making their way through his veins until his heart stuttered. “And you knew I wasn’t gonna stay in there.”

“Oh, I’m sorry,” Tony snapped, “Did you think I couldn’t see you? Because I can fucking see you fine, but _Jarvis cannot.”_

“I heard you say it the first time, Dad. How pissed is Other Dad?”

Thor’s exasperated sigh cut through the Clint’s awful attempt at levity. He honestly didn’t care. The ache quickly morphed into a pounding. If any of them had thought Clint was just gonna sit and twiddle his damn thumbs while Nat and Bucky were missing, they were a bunch of fucking morons.

Tony threw his hands up, making a violent, frustrated noise behind his teeth as Steve slid into view behind him. “Other Dad is pretty pissed you flew the coop early. I had a plan, Hawkeye. You bugging out with a jet and Thor wasn’t in it.”

“Okay, first, I wasn’t aware of any of that. Second, did we all forget about the Fury thing?”

Thor made a questioning noise, and Clint shot him an apologetic look. “Third, Cap, fucking Hydra has _**Bucky**_. _And_ Nat. _Hydra_ , Cap.”

Tony opened his mouth, but Clint cut him off with a hard shake of his head. “Look, I’m fucking nuts. Great, we’ll deal with it hopefully never, but especially not now,” he said, words falling rapidly from his mouth. “I promised him, okay? I fucking promised him, one _stupid_ _goddamn_ _promise_ , and I’m gonna keep it if it kills me.” Clint leaned back in his chair, mouth a hard, thin line as he glared. “I’m not going back without him.”

Steve nodded but Tony snorted, dragging a gauntleted hand down his face. “You couldn’t even if you wanted to,” he said, sounding exhausted. “You’re an idiot, Barton.”

“Um,” Clint said, thrown. “Yes?”

Tony locked eyes with Clint, his mouth tight and his shoulders hunched. “Tell me you didn’t actually initiate SNE and then try to fly the jet. The jet that is run by _Jarvis_. Tell me you didn’t _actually_ do that, Clint, because if you did, the _second_ you touched the yoke, which has _sensors for_ _reasons exactly_ _like this,_ the plane dropped all sorts of systems that are _kind_ of relevant, and I can’t help you because Jarvis can’t see you until you revoke SNE which _you have to be here to do._ ” By the time Tony cut himself off, he was bellowing into the camera.

“Oh,” Clint said, blinking down at his hands on the yoke. “Shit.”

Loki’s demented laughter drowned out the world for a beat. The words began to pull themselves out the icy mud that was his skull, a steady refrain of _you’ll be too late, he’s already dead, you’ve ruined everything, they’ve got him, they’ve got him, and I’ve got you—_

“Oh shit, he says,” Tony repeated, his voice high and tight as he stared up at nothing. “I can’t, I can’t do this.” He made an aborted move to leave before turning his fierce gaze back onto Clint and Thor. “Land it. Right fucking _now_. Thor, if his eyes change color or he starts acting weird, knock him the hell out and sit on him until we can get there.” Tony stormed away, jamming the helmet into place.

Steve watched Tony march away for a moment before focusing in on Clint. “I’d tell you to wait for us to retrieve you, but I try not to issue orders I know won’t be followed.”

Clint didn’t have it in him to feel shame. He glared back, ignoring the way Loki’s laughter grew shrill and manic, reverberating inside his bones. Thor’s gaze settled on his face, a weighted, physical thing. He ignored that, too.

When Steve asked if they brought comms, Clint gave the sign for no, holding his fist parallel to the ground and shaking it back and forth like he would shake his head. “Of course not,” Steve sighed. “What about phones?” Clint repeated his sign, but Thor pulled his cell out of the pocket of his jeans.

“Good. I’ll send you updates as we get them. I expect you to do the same.” Clint sat up straighter in response to Steve’s Captain voice. “Based on where our radar has you, you found Widow’s info dump. Keep in mind that they're on the move.”

Steve’s jaw flexed. “We’re supposed to be a team, Clint. Running off alone isn’t how a team functions, especially when you rope someone into your bullheadedness without filling them in.” Steve nodded towards Thor, ignoring Clint’s muttered, “Hypocrite.”

“Please stay where you are and let us do this part.”

“We will remain cautious, Captain,” Thor said, and Steve cut the feed. Thor turned to Clint, and crossed his arms.

Clint opened his mouth before he could decide if he should apologize or explain. Thor cut him off straight away, holding one broad, flat palm upright.

“Do not feed me false platitudes, Barton. I knew you weren’t forthright with me, and I followed you despite it. That was my choice to make.” He paused, and inclined his head towards Clint. “Because knowing you needed my assistance was more important than whatever you chose to withhold.”

Clint looked away, heat flooding his cheeks. Who knew Thor could shame with the best of them?

Thor stood, and made his way towards the rear of the plane. “Though, perhaps now, you will see fit to share, what, exactly, I have gotten myself into.”

Slinging the chair around to catch Thor’s eye, Clint flinched, hard. The sudden movement caused his headache to surge to the forefront and he pressed one hand against this temple.

He hadn’t noticed when Loki’s hysterical giggles had faded out, but he would have preferred the noise. Especially when the alternative swayed over Thor’s shoulder.

Behind Thor, Loki’s slim figure flickered in and out of sight. The image paced, his face — when he had one — twisted up in something needy. Hungry. Clint made a high, squeaking sound.

“Clint, are you well?”

Loki solidified, as though someone colored him in from the edges — the last pieces to fix into place were his bright, glowing eyes. His arms hovered over Thor, the deranged grin on his face distorting his features.

Or maybe Loki had come back wrong, from the fight with Phil. The hair along the nape of Clint’s neck stood at attention, goosebumps trailing down his spine and arms the longer he watched Loki. Something didn’t fit.

“My friend, can you hear me?”

Fingertips curved over the mound of Thor’s shoulder, barely grazing the fabric of his shirt before they were snatched back. Loki opened his mouth to shriek, but his body shredded before the sound could escape.

Instead, a shadow person hovered behind Thor, a human shape made from smoke and ash. Electric blue sparks flickered where the eyes should be.

“What the hell?” Clint muttered, watching as the smoke man tried to step closer to Thor, only to disintegrate a second time.

Mjolnir thrust toward his face, and Clint jerked away, bumping something behind him.

“I’m fine,” He responded automatically, before his brain caught up to his ears. “No, I mean, yeah, yeah, I can fill you in. But, uh. Landing the plane. Before we die. Might be more important. So. We should do that.” Toeing at the floor, Clint swung the chair back.

Ignoring it and it’ll go away. Don’t think about it. Ignore it and it will _go away._

If only he believed it.

“Aw, yoke, no,” Of course he’d knocked into it. The plane was steadily curving to the right, now. He took the yoke in cautious, shaking fingers, and tried to straighten it back out without losing altitude. Without Jarvis, the plane's instruments were useless. Clint occupied himself by filling his brain with curses.

Thor chuckled. “Open the door, and prepare to shut the engine off.”

“What,” Clint started, even as he slapped the toggle for the rear hatch. Over his shoulder, he watched Thor swing the hammer over his head and launch himself free of the quinjet. The shadow-man tumbled out after him. Clint swallowed and turned back.

“The actual fuck.” He thumbed the toggle again, closing the door behind Thor.

Since the universe seemed to delight in ensuring he was aware of his shitty choices as fast as possible, the plane jolted as it was forcibly halted in midair. Clint, sans harness, slammed into the controls and slumped to the floor, groaning. “Son of a bitch, that’s gonna leave a mark.”

Climbing back into his seat, Clint buckled himself in properly, grumbling all the while. He deployed the landing gear and set about properly shutting the plane down.

The plane jumped through the night as Thor, presumably holding the plane upright by its belly with his pinky, chose an adequate place to land.

Clint might have settled into the bitter part of his mental cycle.

Once settled in an empty field, Clint let Thor back onboard, refusing to look over as his hands went through a pointless post-flight check automatically. Tony would have to reconfigure parts of the system once they hauled it back to the tower. And Jarvis.

“Why did Tony instruct me to render you unconscious?”

Clint slumped, letting his head hang. He’d half hoped he’d be able to avoid this. “So, funny story,” he said after a moment, rolling his head and shoulders back. “I’ve been living with your brother in my head for over a year. Dunno if it’s my brain’s broke, or leftover from the mind fuck.”

As Clint scooped up his quiver and made his way over to his bag, Thor visibly worked through Clint’s spectacular non-answer.

“That explains your interest in Loki’s whereabouts,” he remarked slowly, “But not why I might need to harm you.”

“Uh, maybe because I’m nuts?” Clint responded, dark humor lacing his voice. “I’m seeing shit that isn’t real. I tried to hurt them,” Clint threw out a hand in a vague, all encompassing gesture. “Had to be sedated, got stuffed into Hulk’s calm down box. I mean,” Clint made the mistake of squinting at him, only to find Loki draped in the pilot’s chair, running clawed hands over the space beside Thor’s arm. He looked away. “You caught that, yeah?”

“I do not believe tormenting you across such a distance is within my brother’s abilities.”

“No offense, bro,” Clint said, snapping his bow into place and running his fingers over the limbs. “But that doesn't mean much. Point is, I’m crazy, unsafe and armed, with a history of poor life choices.” Nevermind that from the edge of his eye, Clint could see Loki stand, his tongue laving over his lower lip, the redness stark against the paper white of his skin.

Satisfied that his bow and gear were fine, Clint scooped up the bag and scurried off the plane. His skin seemed hypersensitive, Loki’s presence a flame licking along his exposed back. He moved faster, the need to get away too strong to ignore. Thor’s heavy footfalls followed.

Once under the soft, starry sky, Clint could breathe easier. He slipped around the plane, putting the bulk of the jet at his back and rolling his neck until it popped.

Thor drew close, his face grave. “We have not had an opportunity to grow close,” he said, speaking carefully as he crossed his arms. “In truth, perhaps we erred in believing you would come to us, that we should wait rather than draw you from your self-imposed exile.”

Clint felt his jaw drop as Thor caught his gaze and held it.

“I have always counted you among my brothers-at-arms, Clinton. I will do all that I can to aid you, both in reclaiming our stolen kin and with the burden you have carried alone.” Thor uncrossed his arms, settling one hand on Clint’s shoulder as he leaned close. “You are not alone,” he said, earnestly. “If we have made you feel as though you must hide this affliction, than I am sorry, my friend.”

“Thanks?” Clint rasped, startled and off balance. Thor’s hand grew heavy, the warmth bleeding through Clint’s gear building rapidly into an inferno, boring down into Clint’s joint.

“Ow,” he yelped, ducking free from Thor’s grip. He shoved the fabric to the side and craned his neck. He couldn’t see in the darkness, but the skin hurt when Clint poked it. “The hell?”

Thor slipped a fingertip over the exposed skin. White spots bloomed behind Clint’s eyes as his knees gave out, the pain too fast and overwhelming to ignore.

Clint tumbled to the side, catching himself on his hands in an effort to avoid Thor’s instinctive attempt to steady him.

Loki flashed to life between them. His eyes blazed, one sapphire, the other a bright veridian, casting strange shadows on his waxy skin. Clint blinked and had to swallow, hard.

No, not shadows. Loki’s face was melting, sloughing off the high arch of his cheekbones, drooping from his eye sockets. Clint swallowed again, trying to wet his dry, tight throat.

Thin, skeletal fingers darted out, digging into the soreness of his shoulder. Clint felt the tendons in his neck snap as he tensed, his body one long loop of agony. Loki threw his head back, his howling laughter pounding at Clint’s ears as his nails worked deeper, seeking to tear the meat from Clint’s bones.

Through the haze of tears, Clint watched Loki’s Adam’s apple split, something thick and dark oozing down the moonlit column of his throat. All at once, a gut wrenching smell assaulted Clint’s nose, a sickening, too sweet, near-rotting scent that coated the back of his tongue until he gagged.

The laughter continued, echoing off the trees as Loki’s voice slithered into Clint’s head, gleeful and insane. “So much strength, my bird. He has so much energy, so much _life_. To be this close, and yet unable —I _need_ him, hawklet. We need the flame that burns inside him, to eat him down to the wick.”

Loki hunched down, forcing his claws deeper into Clint’s body as he shoved his wet, horrifying face into Clint’s. “With a bounty such as he, I could set you free,” Loki breathed, like a promise. The flesh under his left eye shifted, revealing thin veins and smooth muscle over bone.

Something hard and heavy settled over Clint’s head, covering his eyes and ears. Loki vanished mid-bargain, taking the smell with him. Clint fell back, panting, onto his elbows, legs spread out before him.

His ears rang. His throat felt raw, and the pulsing in his shoulder continued unabated.

“You cried out,” Thor said, his voice muffled. His legs moved into Clint’s limited sight as the thing on his head shifted.

“‘Kay,” Clint coughed, reaching up with one hand to poke at his head. “Why’m I wearing your helmet?” Deep, deliberate breaths helped settle his pulse, but the uneasy roil of his gut persisted.

Loki’s words seemed to run in circles around him. “With a bounty such as he, I could set you free.” For the barest of moments, Clint had been swayed. Would have gladly dumped this on anyone else, just to make it stop.

He’d always known he was an awful, hateful person. This might be a new low in his personal record.

“It worked, as I thought it might.” Thor sighed at Clint’s glare. “My helm is enchanted. My brother oversaw that chore himself, when we were first given our status as warriors.”

Blood drained from his face in a dizzying rush. He scrambled to his knees, hands moving to wrench the thing off his head.

Thor caught his wrists, pulling a frantic, terrified sound from Clint’s chest. “Listen to me,” he demanded. “Whatever evil has beset you cannot overcome Loki’s protective spells. It worked.” He hauled Clint to his feet. “There is more at work here than we know. Keep the helm on, my friend. It will shield you from whatever demon this is.”

He let go, stepping back with a smile which resembled more of a grimace. “What better way to thwart him?” he asked, soft. “Than by using his own spells to protect you?”

“You have an idea,” Clint responded, caught somewhere between accusation and confusion. “You think you know what this is.”

Thor shook his head, rueful. “I have many ideas, but I am no sorcerer.”

Music blared, some fast paced jazz number disrupting the empty night. Thor dug his phone out, the noise cutting off as he tapped at the screen.

“Site’s an old speakeasy,” Cap said without preamble, his face filling the tiny screen. “Been blown to hell, fresh, maybe thirty minutes ago.”

Clint went light headed in relief. Natasha must have found Bucky and razed the place. Her fondness for explosives rivaled Tony’s.

“No sign of either our missing pair or surviving Hydra agents. Looks like they used an escape route before the fire spread.”

“Contact?” Clint asked, pressing into Thor’s space. He paused, blinking at his hand on Thor’s arm. It didn’t hurt. Hadn’t hurt earlier, either. Maybe the helmet really was shielding him.

Cap’s attention snapped away from the two-way camera. His eyes darted back and forth as he read something on his own screen. He pressed a hand to the communication unit embedded in his helmet. “Iron Man, can you double check that? Yeah? Good.”

“Message from Widow,” Cap said, zeroing back in on the camera. “Both Widow and Winter are waiting for pick up at some strip mall.”

“Where?” Clint demanded, all but climbing Thor to get closer.

“Your plane is grounded, Hawkeye,” Steve reminded him.

“Thor flies!” Clint shouted. “If he can carry the stupid plane, he can carry me. Where the hell are they, Rogers?”

Steve’s eyes flicked from Clint’s face, to the helmet, to Thor, who shrugged. With a sigh, Steve rattled off the location. “We’re going to have a quick look-see around here, but we’ll be there soon. If either of them look like they need medical you call me immediately.”

“Of course, Captain,” Thor responded, ending the call with a flick of his thumb.

Clint jogged back to the plane, tossing his duffle inside. Much as he might wish he had it later, right now it would only make this harder. Quick, hard jabs activated the stealth shield and closed the hatch. He slung his quiver over one shoulder, and folded his bow down as much as it would go as he hurried back to Thor. “Okay,” he said. “How we doing this?”

 


	14. Chapter 14

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Clint works off some aggression, and Bucky's going to lock him up for his own goddamn protection after this.

Thor vetoed the classic Cap and Iron Pony set up, leaving Clint to wrap his legs around Thor’s waist, as he caged Clint in against his chest with one arm. Clint kept up a steady stream of inventive swearing, his face buried in Thor’s neck, one arm slung around Thor’s back and clutching his bow. His other hand fisted itself into Thor’s shirt, just under his shoulder blade.

There was a lot of clinging. He’d lived in the circus, he was a sniper —it wasn’t the height that bothered him. It was knowing how far he’d fall when —  _ if _ Thor let go. That he had no control, and hung in the sky purely on Thor’s whim.

Trust wasn’t something Clint carried around in his back pocket, no matter how irrational he knew he was being.

The rush of air slowed, and Clint chanced pulling his face free. He had to let go of Thor’s shirt to clamp a hand down on the helmet. “We there?”

“Not quite,” Thor murmured, canting his head so he spoke directly into Clint’s face. It was easier to read his lips than try to hear past the rushing wind and the metal blocking his aids. Jutting his chin out, Thor indicated something over Clint’s shoulder.

Clint pulled further back, trying to twist himself without letting go.

One lonely street lamp cast a dim, sad glow in the middle of a run down parking lot, several hundred yards away. Dark shapes loomed beyond that, low slung buildings which must be the mall itself. A smaller cluster by the edge might be vehicles, but without the lights he couldn’t be sure.

The place looked abandoned. Then again, it was nearing four in the morning.

Silver flashed, the shine mirror-bright and impossible to miss. Clint furrowed his brow, sucking a lip into his mouth as he watched. Movement, by the farthest corner. A thin sliver of blue arced across the shadows, deep between two buildings. The color snuffed out before Clint could blink.

Clint didn’t waste any time. Tightening his legs around Thor, his ankles hooked behind Thor’s back, Clint let his upper body fall back, dangling until he was nearly upside down.  A swift, violent jerk unfolded his bow. Nocking an arrow absently, he watched the night.

In-two-three, he breathed, out-two-three, his pulse a steady tide as he ignored the burning in his stomach and leg muscles. There, a ripple in the black velvet, too blocky to be Natasha, too cautious for Bucky. Clint loosed, automatically yanking a new arrow free.

Someone howled, the sound echoing across the parking lot before cutting out abruptly.

Thor scooped him up, crushing him against his chest again as Mjolnir yanked them through the air. A thick hand wrapped around Clint’s wrist. “I will seek out Widow,” Thor said, swooping low. “Find your lover, and together we will end this game.”

Clint let his legs slip free from Thor’s hips, cursing his reluctance to join the team for training as he hung from Thor’s grip. Thor dropped him, and Clint nearly twisted his ankle, turning it into an awkward roll.

He ran, body low to the ground, until he could plaster himself against the side of the closest building. Quickly, he ran through the mental inventory of the items he’d stuffed into his tac belt, and the pockets down the legs of his pants.

It helped center him, helped calm his rabbiting heart.  Bucky was  _ here, _ Buck was so close, Clint just had to find him.

They’d gotten out, but they’d clearly been followed. Clint let a smile cut across his face, feeling the vicious rage he’d been carrying unfurl in his chest. He’d find Bucky and Nat, and he’d take out as many enemy operatives as he could in the process.

His fingers itched with the need to hurt someone. It probably wasn’t healthy, but little about him was.

Fingers sliding along the limb of his bow, he found a button. Pressing and a quick twist shifted the bow, the curved limbs straightening out, the string folding away, until he bore a six foot staff. Anticipation fizzled at his joints.

Sucking in a breath, Clint ducked away from the wall, around the corner towards the movement he’d seen from above. The helmet made it hard to hear anything past his breathing, so he moved slow, sticking to the deepest shadows as he jogged.

He paused, peeking around the back wall. Twenty feet ahead, two bodies strained against one another, clashing together only to dance away.

Clint inched closer, the helmet muffling the sounds of boots against gravel, flesh against flesh and the grunts of impact

He watched for a beat, once he was close enough to see. Both men wore military inspired uniforms, the Hydra symbol clear on one man’s back and the other man’s arm.

Why the hell would Hydra be fighting Hydra? He shook himself. Infighting would make tracking Bucky down easier, hopefully.  

One man skidded back, a hand clapped to his upper arm. It was too dark to see the blood, but as droplets fell from the man’s arm, it was clear the hit had scored deeply.

On a different day, Clint might have had fun with this. Thrown out some crappy one liners. Amused himself by showing off. He felt years removed from that guy.

Instead, Clint stepped forward, swinging the bat like a club at the closest man’s head. Goon one went down, never knew what hit him.

The second guy shouted, charging in with a wild punch. Clint spun away, thumbing the release on the staff. It melted back into the bow and setting an arrow to string took less than a thought. He tracked the guy as the idiot tried to slink away, into the dark.

“Avengers don’t kill,” the goon spluttered, hands raised.

“Good for them, bro,” Clint snorted. “Where’s Bucky Barnes.”

The confusion melted into something wild, the man’s mouth curling into a terrible smile. “Hail Hydra,” he shouted, rushing Clint, a knife glinting in one hand.

Clint let fly. The arrow buried itself in the hollow of the man’s throat. The body dropped to its knees, hands scrabbling weakly at the shaft as it crumpled into a heap.

Dropping to his own knees beside the first body, Clint flicked the bow back into a staff. Briskly, he patted the body down, coming up empty. He hauled the body onto its back and blinked. A dart hung from the bleeding shoulder. Clint left it.

Turning to the second body, Clint found a set of knives, and tucked them into his calf pocket.

The ridiculous octopus looked different on this body. Clint yanked out his penlight, wondering yet again who decided an octopus should be the official design for a group named after a mythical creature with lots of heads, not legs. Tentacles. Whatever.

This body’s mark shone a lurid green under the penlight. Clint sat back on his heels. Shuffling back to the first body, Clint collected the dart and stored it in an empty pouch. Then, he flicked the light over the arm band. Red.

He stuffed the light away, mind whirring just below the surface as he glanced out into the night.

Clint straightened, as a glimmer caught his eye. He shifted, catching the tiny flash of metal in the edge of the grass. Clint scooped the thin knife up, grimacing at the slick, cooling wet coating the handle. Blood. He tilted the weapon, angling it into the scant moonlight.

“Not Hydra,” he murmured, perplexed. Holding the blade closer, his eyes went wide. “That’s… a snake? The hell’d you get pulled into, guys?”

The blow caught him unawares, hard across his middle back. Clint let himself fall forward, wheezing as he rolled away from any follow up. He clutched the tiny throwing blade in his hand.

Goon three gave a pleased guffaw. “It’s Arrow Guy. We thought SHIELD had locked you up, man. Nice hat.”

“Where’s Bucky?” Clint demanded, still breathless.

The enemy snorted, shifting his weight as Clint stood. “That’s what pulled you outta the nuthouse? Guess the boss was right after all.”

Clint turned with the enemy, hands flexing along the length of the staff. “Where is he.”

“Never mind him, circus boy. He’s busy. Bossman’ll take good care’a him.”

Clint tried to ram the staff into the guy’s gut. He danced away, more nimble than a man the size of a mountain should be.

“Yeah,” Goon Three said. “You gotta deal with me.”

“Nope,” Clint said, popping his lip. He lunged.

The idiot let out a whoop, and threw himself to the left, away from Clint — and the nearest alley.

Clint grinned, slipping closer to the space between buildings. A short, sharp whine split the air, as something blasted into the ground by Clint’s foot, showering him with dirt and grass. He swiped out blindly with the staff, wiping grit from his eyes.

“Your Momma never teach you manners, man? It’s rude to leave early.”

Another mechanical whine, and Clint reacted on instinct, throwing his body to the side. Something  thudded into his shoulder, heavy and thick. The impact blunted his nerves, leaving behind a cold, empty sensation instead of the burning of a bullet. Hopefully that meant it hadn’t been a bullet. One lucky shot and Clint was even more useless than now.

Clint let the momentum knock him down to his knees, pressing his fist to his dead shoulder. He breathed through his teeth, ignoring the faint rasping sound. He kept his head canted down, watching the other man through his lashes.

His assailant pocketed the weapon, whistling tunelessly as he strolled closer. “Damn shame, that,” he said, cheerfully. “Was lookin’ for more of a fight than you can give me. Should’ve retired your sorry ass.”

Clint huffed, snapping his fist out, releasing his grip on the small, thin snake-knife with the easy precision of relentless practice. He coughed out a rough laugh at the shock on the goon’s face.

The knife took him in the curve of his right shoulder, slicing into his bulk just beside the ball joint.

Ignoring the shriek, Clint boosted himself back to his feet, leaning his weight on his staff. “Rookie,” he muttered, annoyed. “I’m a fuckin’ marksman.”

Hunched in on himself, the guy tried to yank his weapon free of its holster, his right hand twitching and jerking at his side.

Clint slung the staff out, bracing it along the inside of his arm for stability. His own right hand couldn’t respond properly, overreaching where he tried to direct it. He let it flop back to his side. Instead, he sliced up with the staff, slamming it into the man’s chin.

The goon’s head snapped back, blood seeping from the corners of his mouth —he must’ve bitten his tongue—and he stumbled back several steps.

Clint pressed forward, rather than lose his advantage. The staff, still raised high, cracked down on Hydra-agent’s upraised face, driving him straight to his knees. Clint couldn’t muster as much force behind the blows one handed, but his life had ensured he could use either hand just fine, alone.

Another spray of liquid, and a hand flew up towards the man’s face. Busted nose, probably. Clint found he didn’t care about much, past making sure he couldn’t get back up. He shifted his grip, holding it more like a baseball bat. He swung, clipping the man hard across the temple.

He went down without a sound.

Clint braced himself on the staff, planting one end in the dirt as he stared. If the guy ever did get back up, that would be some serious brain damage. He didn’t have it in him to pretend the thought gave him anything than a feeling of satisfaction.

“Buck,” He croaked, eyeing the way his right hand shook. “The fuck are you, babe?”

If this was an actual op, he would have retrieved the knife. He would have… it didn’t really matter what he ‘would have’. This wasn’t his standard SHIELD mission. All that mattered was getting Bucky back, getting Nat back. Going home.

“Clint!”

He spun, the hybrid staff-bow whipping up and around — only to have the intended trajectory altered as a foot rammed into his forearm. Clint reared back, years of training keeping his tingling fingers tight around his weapon.

Hand settled on either side of his face, sliding up the stubble on his cheeks to tuck under the edges of his helmet. Nails dug into his skin, pulling him down, controlling his head.

“Jesus, Natasha, what the hell?”

She didn’t respond. The lamp, dim and distant, left him with only the scant moonlight to decipher her expression. He squinted, making out the flat, firm line of her mouth. Her wild, unkempt hair hid her eyes.

“Widow?” Clint asked, forcing his weak, numb hand to wrap around her wrist. His heart thudded against his ribs. Anything could be wrong. She stood tall, but Nat had hidden injuries more times than he’d ever know. Without the light, he had no hope of catching even a hint of her tells.

“I need you to tell me you’re in there,” Clint blurted, trying to squeeze his lax hand around the delicate bones in her wrist. The longer she stood there, gazing up at him, the more his mind spun out of control.

She could be bleeding, dying in front of him just like his dream. She could have been subjected to the same mindfuck as Bucky — God, what if she didn’t know him now? What if she’d been remade into something else?

Or—or she had bad news, something she didn’t want to say aloud. Just like that, Clint found himself falling down a spiral of flat-out panic, rather than the low grade anxiety he’d been living under for what felt like forever.

Bucky had gone Winter, and she’d had to run. Hydra had gotten their hooks back in him. Bucky had been hurt in the escape and now he was holed up somewhere, alone and bloody and unconscious.

He could be dead. Hydra could’ve decided he’d finally been more trouble than he was worth.

The nails dug deeper into the meat of his cheeks.

“You’re lucky you’re wearing this ridiculous helmet, or I’d slap your face off,” Natasha murmured. “Stop freaking out. Breathe. Air is important, doofus.”

Clint gasped, his lungs clamoring for the oxygen he hadn’t realized he’d been denying himself. He blinked, and swallowed, forcing himself out of his own head.  “Fuck, Nat, tell me you're okay,” he begged, leaning closer, trying to find her eyes. He needed to  _ see _ her.

“Am I— Am  _ I _ okay?” She repeated, her husky voice incredulous. She shoved his face away, stepping back. “You’ve had the audacity to lie straight to my face, for over a year, a  _ year _ , Barton, and you want to know  _ if I am okay.” _

Clint winced, planting the staff beside him like a crutch. He hunched his shoulders and ducked his head. Ignoring the spasms in his right hand, he rubbed it over the grooves on the sides of the helmet. “I meant the whole kidnapped-rescue thing?”

“Peachy,” she responded, the barest hint of a growl coloring her voice. “When this is over, you and I? Will be having _words.”_

He looked up at her, eyes wide and alarmed. “Nat, no, it’s not like that-”

“It is,” she interrupted, cold. “You didn’t trust me enough to come to me.” Natasha let her voice crackle on the last word, exposing the worry at the root of her anger.

“Nat,” Clint said again, helpless. He watched her fold her lips over her teeth, and hated himself. “Nat,  _ no. _ It wasn’t about you at all, okay? I  _ had _ to, Bucky needed—”

“Words,” she said, cutting across his bumbling. “Later, at home.” When he didn’t reply, she leaned up into his space, close enough for Clint to see her eyes narrow. “Understood?”

He nodded, resettling the helmet for what felt like the millionth time. The worry she let color her words ate at him, made him want to curl at at her feet and beg forgiveness. “Copy.”

“Wonderful. Now, I lost Thor over by the dumpsters,” she jerked a thumb behind her as she settled back onto her heels. “And James split off before that. Where’s everyone else?”

Clint had perked up immediately at the sound of Bucky’s name. “Is he, does that mean…?”

“He’s fine, Clint,” Nat soothed. “Pissed as a cat fresh out of water, got some bumps and bruises, some scrapes. But fine.”

Clint snorted. “That’s… I’m gonna tell him you said that. Angry is good, though, Hell, when he’s not mad at me, angry Bucky is fuckin’ fantastic.”

She sighed, turning away from him to slip into the alley. “I don’t have enough information. This is all… this is too messy. Disjointed.  Even Hydra plans better than this.”

“We got more than one player.” Quickly, he filled her in on his findings as they made their way around the building. “The color change mean anything to you?”

She hummed, peeking around a corner before turning back to Clint. “The only ones who use a snake motif that I can think of right now are the Serpent Society, but we’ve had half of them locked up for a while. The colors… isn’t Hydra usually red? Wait, wait, earlier someone said  _ Sarkiss— _ ”

Thunder rolled overhead, sudden and violent, harsh enough to rattle the windows. Thor’s furious bellow came on its heels. Thin streaks of lightning traced patterns above them in the clouds, casting strange shadows and burning into Clint’s pupils.

He felt more than saw Natasha drop low, the sudden static in the air letting him know she’d pulled out her batons. He covered her, the movements automatic as he wrenched his bow into place, an arrow notched as he blinked his eyes clear. The brick pressed against his spine, hard and painful.

Lightning curled again, a thick, gnarled knife against the velvet sky. It splintered into two great forks and cast the entire scene into high relief.

Thor, somehow more strange as he hung suspended mid-air in a pair of jeans and a tee, his hair swept up into a messy bun, shouted again. He dove, heading hammer first into a knot of men, all in black, militaristic uniforms. Natasha took off, her lithe form closing the distance between them easily.

Movement from the corner of his eye snapped Clint around. Two bodies, backlit by a third flare of electricity: one painfully familiar male body and his female opponent. She snapped her arm out, a thin, back tendril leaping forward just as he brought up his shining, silver arm, letting the whip coil around it.

Clint was moving before the light faded, the afterimage burned into his watering eyes. He could see it in his head, the way the arm yanked back, trying to haul the woman off her feet.

Natasha’s half finished thought slid into his mind, rustling through the bits and pieces he already knew.

He angled himself slightly to the right and ran faster. Dry, rustling noises meant she’d freed the whip, and was angling for a second strike.  He dove, his body colliding with hers and taking them both down in a fierce battle of limbs, metal and leather.

“You,” she hissed in his face. It had been years, but Clint swore at the faint trace of Europe in her voice.

“I hate being right.” He grunted, trying to wrestle her to the ground. The shine of her lips gave him pause. He had to twist away from the elbow she aimed at his stomach, contorting himself to keep control of both legs, one arm pinned under his bow. He couldn’t let her get her mouth on an open wound, couldn’t let her get close enough to kiss him. She wore poison on her lips.

“Clint!” Bucky shouted. “Hawkeye, what the hell are you doing?” Boots thudded against concrete.

She thrust her hips up, dislodging him enough to ram her fist into his nose. He yelped, rearing up and away from the source of pain. “Getting punched,” he groaned, trying to catch the flow of blood with his hand. She twisted, dumping him into the dirt. He wheezed, stunned for the briefest second.

Heels clicked as she leaped to her feet and spun. Clint rolled, knowing she’d aim for a kick next. He managed to snatch up the bow as he moved. Not that he made it far before vertigo kicked in, leaving him hunched over on his knees as the world spun.

“Gotta move faster’n that if you wanna catch this carnie, snake,” he said, voice thick and slurred.

Dashing the flow of tears from his face, Clint squinted up at her. She was a hazy figure, one arm high. More importantly, he could hear faint slithering as the whip shifted.

Behind her, the night responded in kind, movement slipping closer and closer as her arm went back. Clint would have smiled if his face didn’t feel like it was caving in.

He didn’t bother moving.

Blood pooled in his palm, dripping down to the ground. She tensed, preparing to bring her weight behind the snap of her weapon. Clint flung his bloody hand out, sending a spray of warm, red rain towards her.

She flinched.

Bucky caught her, bionic hand gleaming as it wrapped around her upraised wrist. Clint watched the silver fingers as they squeezed tighter and tighter. She gasped. The leather fell from her spasming hand.

“You know her?” Bucky demanded, knocking the woman down to her knees. His voice may as well have been heaven sent, considering how Clint nearly collapsed at the sound.

“Hi, babe,” Clint retorted instead of wrapping himself around Bucky’s leg and begging him never to leave again. “I missed you, too,” he continued, his voice garbled as he pinched his nose. “Glad you’re not a zombie.” He closed his eyes, tilting his head so his face was angled up and away from Bucky. The waterworks would stop in a minute, although he wasn’t sure if they were from the clip to the nose or seeing Bucky, solid and  _ real _ right in front of him.

He hadn’t been sure he’d ever see him again.

“What?” He could hear Bucky shake off his confusion, could hear the soft grunts as Bucky renewed his grip on his captive. “Tilt your head down, you fucking idiot,” he snapped, irritated. “Before you drown in your own goddamn blood.”

“Are—” Clint floundered as he complied. Of all the way he’s hoped this would go, getting yelled at hadn’t been high on the list. Maybe he should’ve known better. Hadn’t he told Phil? Clint didn’t get to keep nice things.

“Are you  _ mad _ at me?” Clint asked. He felt his heart as it tumbled down his ribcage to land at his feet. He hated it when Bucky was pissed at him, it left him feeling small and unbalanced.

Bucky sighed, and Clint didn’t have it in him to look up. He’d take cowardly for eight hundred, Alex. Instead, he focused on his breathing, forcing the dizziness and nausea down. In-two-three, out-two-three. Bucky’s leaving me, in-two-three.

It didn’t help. Not that he’d figured it would.

From the cursing, Buck was tying Viper up with her own whip. Clint kept himself still, too wrung out and lost to stand. In a minute, he’ll get up. In a minute, he’d be able to spout something coherent out and slink off to find Natasha. In a minute he’d put a smile on his face and pretend he hadn’t lost his fucking mind over Bucky Barnes.

Wide, calloused fingers slid under his chin. They tilted his face up, the thumb stroking along his cheek until Clint opened his eyes.

Bucky’s face might look impassive to someone else, but Clint knew better. Hours and hours he’d spent, identifying each and every shift in this face. He could read the exhaustion in the pinched corners of Bucky’s eyes, the slightest downturn in his mouth that meant his arm was bothering him again - or something else was causing him pain. The right eyebrow was a just a hair lower than the left, so Bucky wasn’t confused, but he was... hesitant.

All of it adding up to the most important observation, really. Bucky was fine. He was alive, whole, himself.  Clint turned his head, forgetting about the blood still staining his face as he nuzzled into Bucky’s palm. He had the weird urge to climb into Bucky’s lap, press himself close until he melted into the man’s very DNA.

“You’re a jackass,” Bucky remarked softly, keeping his hand where it was. “You show up here, outta nowhere, you’ve obviously been in a couple fights already, you straight out tackle the mark like we’re in the damn schoolyard, get your nose busted right off  _ and _ bleed all over me.”

Clint blinked at him, pulling back a little.

Bucky tightened his fingers. “Yeah,” he continued. “I’m fucking pissed at you.”

“I’m… sorry?”

“Fuckin’ should be,” Bucky murmured. “I’m the one that got kidnapped, how the hell’re you the one bleeding everywhere?”

Clint’s breath hitched. Bucky wasn’t mad, not really.  Bucky was  _ worried _ . “They took you,” he said, leaning away to rub his face on his sleeve. From the stickiness, all he managed to accomplish was spreading the blood around. “I had a promise to keep.” He bit his lip, but as far as declarations go, now might not be too bad. He squared his shoulders and locked eyes with Bucky.

“I came for you, just like I said I would. I will  _ always _ come for you, Buck. Always.” Clint snapped his mouth shut. He hadn’t intended his voice to betray him so thoroughly: shaking, raw and vehement.

Bucky fell forward another inch, letting his body drop to his knees rather than squat. “Yeah, you did. I knew would you would,” Bucky breathed, eyes wide and intent on Clint’s face as he brought his free hand up to frame Clint’s jaw. “I knew you’d come for me.”

Bucky’s mouth dipped in, pressing soft against Clint’s lips, careful to avoid his nose. Clint couldn’t help the short, high whine he made, or the little sad noise when Bucky pulled away.

“Why’re you wearing Thor’s hat, anyway?”

The sharp metal on metal slide of a gun being cocked knocked them out of their reverie. “Because I’m stupid,” Clint breathed. “So fucking stupid.” Bucky just flashed a grin, all teeth.

“Do us a favor, gentlemen, and remain on your knees.” The woman’s voice came from behind Clint. “As sweet as I’m sure this is, I’m afraid my timetable’s been moved up.”

Clint eyed the glower on Buck’s face. “Thought you tied her up?”

“Did,” he grunted in response, gaze steady over Clint’s shoulder. “Gun?”

“That’d be the dunce behind you, unnecessarily cocking his weapon for funsies.” Clint had to fight to keep his face straight. For starters, Clint’s blood was smeared all along Bucky’s lower face, which was strangely okay with him for reasons he would never examine. Plus, the goon, who’d probably untied his boss while Clint and Buck made cow eyes at each other like morons, couldn’t seem to figure out who to aim for.

And he could feel Bucky’s hands as they slipped down his chest, pulling one of Clint’s numerous spare knives free. It was easy to mirror the move, letting his fingers, which had been curled in Bucky’s shirt, drift down and to the side until they met with the hilt of the long knife on Bucky’s hip.

Buck flickered his eyes to Clint's, eyebrows arched. Clint grinned, tapping a finger against Bucky’s side. One.

“Dramatic, yes,” Viper said over their silent conversation. “But useful.”

Clint tapped another finger. Two.

“Soldier,” Viper continued, seemingly oblivious to the way Bucky’s body tightened. “Get up, slowly, hands raised, and your… friend might survive the night.”

Bucky’s finger tapped, this time. Clint moved, managing to yank the knife free, hurl it towards the gunman and roll away all in one breath. The gun went off, loud as it reverberated off the nearby buildings. Bucky had vanished in the opposite direction, focused on Viper.

Clint’s target fired again, the bullet slicing across the outside of his thigh. He swore, surging to his feet and tumbling into the man's chest. Clint liked long range weapons best, but they all had the same basic flaw.

He laced his hands together, slamming his fist into the man’s temple. The guy stumbled back, trying to bring the gun back into play.  Clint wrapped a hand around his wrist, forcing the gun away.

“Clint!”

At Bucky’s voice, Clint dropped, releasing his hold on the Hydra operative. The guy went down, a knife in his chest. “Huh.” He turned, climbing back to his feet.

Bucky held her fast, braced against his chest with one arm around her throat, the  metallic hand clutching both wrists. He jerked his chin towards his captive, slanting expectant eyebrows towards Clint.

“She’s on SHIELD’s watch list,” Clint said checked the downed man and retrieved the knives. “Goes by Viper, used to run with a crew called the Serpent Society. Likes knives, darts, poisons — lipstick is probably a mild toxin FYI — martial artist. Also, you know. Whips.”  

“Your information is lacking, Hawk,” Viper sneered. She threw her head back, knocking a pained grunt from Bucky.

Clint lunged, too far away, too slow. Viper, her body stronger than the slim outline would indicate, managed to use Bucky’s hold against him. Clint flinched, watching as Bucky sailed over her shoulder, to sprawl on the ground.

“Idiot,” she sneered. “To rely on sheer strength.” She hooked her whip under her foot, tossing it up for her to catch. 

“I am Madame Hydra, now,” she declared, tossing her dark hair over one shoulder with a snap of her head. A flick of her wrist and her weapon sailed out, slapping Bucky across the face. Another flick, and Clint’s helmet clattered away.

“I  _ am _ Hydra. And we shall reclaim what is ours.” Her teeth gleamed, a line of white in the night as she smiled.

The whip sliced forward, aimed towards Bucky, and Clint forgot everything else. He lurched forward, knowing he couldn’t reach him.

Just as he had before, Bucky caught the whip, letting it coil around his metal limb.  “Like hell,” he ground out.  

“Barton,” came a new voice, the silky tones enough to freeze Clint in his tracks. ‘Have you missed me?”

Clint spun, heart in his throat. Loki stood, clear against the darkness, a deranged smile on what remained of his face. “I’ve missed you,” he continued, stepping closer. “You’ve been so good to me, my little hawklet.”

“Oh no,” Clint breathed, feeling his eyes go wide. “No, no, no. The helmet.” He couldn’t make himself look away.

“So good to me,” Loki repeated, nearly purring as he eased in another step. “You've fed me. Filled me with all of your sorrow, your strife. Your poor, pitiful, broken heart.”

“Hawkeyes! _What in the hell are you doing?”_

He turned his head towards Bucky’s voice, backing slowly away from Loki, unable to move his eyes.

“Though you, I came so close to the Aesir. The magic in his blood…” Loki licked at his mouth, his tongue a shriveled, dry thing. “I could taste Yggdrasil itself, all around him.” Loki sighed, part of his cheek splitting as his jaw moved.

Something wrapped around his leg, yanking it out from under him. Clint went down with a shriek, batting at the whip around his calf.

Bucky appeared, yanking it free. “What the  _ fuck _ is going on?”

Clint could only stare up at him as Loki’s voice filled his ears.

“I am so close to being free,” Loki mused. “So close and so… very... far.”

Bucky slapped Clint, Loki’s laughter curling around the edges of his awareness. Clint blinked at the red marks around Bucky’s throat, the fierce, bleeding slice across his cheek.  “Clint, come on,” Bucky panted in his face. “C’mon, dollface,  _ please _ —” He grunted, his body jerking under another crack of Viper’s whip.

“Go,” Clint gasped, “deal with her, never mind me, I’ll be okay,  _ go _ .” He shoved Bucky, ignoring the wounded look on his face just before Bucky spun away.

Loki slunk closer, stinking of death. “You do have a tendency to send away those who would be best suited to aid you.”

“What,” Clint gasped, head pounding.

“I have only a little more to demand of you, little bird. Only a little more to do before I am freed, and you can rest by my side.”

“What,” Clint repeated, scrambling to his feet. “The actual  _ fuck _ .”

“If you insist, we can do this the more difficult way.” Loki shrugged. “It hardly matters.”

Behind him, Bucky shouted. Clint spun, watching the whip arc through the air, splitting into countless black tentacles. Each thick rope twined viciously around Bucky’s body, ignoring how he tore at them. They writhed, cocooning him,  _ constricting _ him right before Clint’s eyes.

Bucky screamed, and screamed again.

Clint slapped his hands over his ears, the bow clattering to his feet as he turned away. “Not real, not real, not real, oh  _ god _ , what if it’s real?” He spun back.

Loki stood between him and Bucky. Or what remained of Loki, anyway. Burning cobalt eyes, ragged charcoal tufts topping the ruins of his face. Bones gleamed through the slick, rotting flesh, along his cheeks and chin, his forearms.

“Hawkeye!” Someone bellowed from far away. “Put the helm back on!”

He tried to answer, his voice curdling in his chest as Loki placed his wet, splintered hands on his face. Skeletal fingers settled into the half moons left by Natasha’s nails.

“Just a little more, my poor hawk,” Loki crooned, bending down to rest his head against Clint’s. Something moist clung to Clint’s skin, dragging as Loki rubbed against Clint’s face, catlike.

Clint stood, frozen, unable to breathe, unable to focus, unable to  _ think _ .

The clawed tips of Loki’s fingers dug in, pressing down harder and harder, grinding against Clint’s bones. “Just a little more, my sweet, and I will seek out my brethren, so that we might devour the world anew.” The pressure turned to sharp pain as Loki’s claws punctured the thin skin of Clint’s face, rasping against the hinge of his jaw.

Clint screamed, and screamed, and screamed and Loki opened his mouth wide, swallowing him down into the darkness.


	15. Chapter 15

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bucky can't take much more of this.  
> (Or, Buck's take on last chapter. Figured it'd be mean to make y'all wait a week... give you a re-run of last chapter and a new cliffhanger and then make you wait *another* week so... regular update on Friday, plus now. Yes? Yes.)

Bucky watched with unseeing eyes as Natasha left, easing the door shut behind her. Part of his brain kept track of her progress, how she slipped into the night as though she belonged there. Once she’d picked the store’s lock and vanished inside, Bucky found himself staring blankly at where she’d been, his eyes going unfocused as his mind took him in an endless cycle of half-thoughts.

Fear. Clint. The chair. Hope. How close he’d come to losing himself. Clint. Determination. Natasha’s words. Relief. He couldn’t seem to focus long enough to figure out his own head.

Shaking himself, Bucky let his eyes slid shut as he dropped his head back against the headrest. Nat hadn’t said anything new, not really. He’d had similar thoughts, but having an outsider, someone who didn’t tiptoe around his own feelings, echo those thoughts aloud? He sucked his lower lip into his mouth and scraped his teeth over it as his eyes gave into the urge to water. Every muscle in his body seemed to melt into the seat beneath him.

He hadn’t realized it would affect him so much, having Nat say those things.

Taking a deep, trembling breath, Bucky wiped at his face and sat up. The wound in his leg twinged sharply, punching a grunt from his chest. Natasha still hadn’t reappeared, so he eased himself sideways, stretching his legs out into the driver’s seat. Healing took a heavy toll on his body’s resources, and after the last few days, he wasn’t sure there was much left to spare.

Pulling the leg of his jeans up, Bucky poked around at the wrapping, peeking underneath. Natasha’d done a good job removing the bullet: the flesh wasn’t trying to expel any foreign substance. It was red and puckered around the edges, a thin film covering the hole. Ugly and disgusting, but closing. He tightened the bandage and shoved his jeans back in place.

All at once, he felt naked, exposed. Vulnerable. It took only a moment to lean back between the seats and snatch up the thigh sheath, buckling it and its blade back into place. Another knife turned up when he poked through the glove compartment, this one in a plain sheath with buckles which slid easily through the loops of his jeans, settling the blade against his upper hip. His hands ached for the steadying weight of a gun. Curling one hand around the hilt of the knife on his hip helped settle him, letting his body sink back into the door behind him.

Waiting for Nat to return, Bucky pulled the hood of his sweater up, and stuffed his hands inside the cuffs. It was soft and warm, and smelled freshly laundered. Crossing his arms, Bucky tucked his nose into his own arm, pretending the fabric smelled more like coffee and sweat and that undefinable something which was purely Clint.

With luck, Nat would pilfer something to eat. It’d help the healing, especially since he hadn’t eaten since the morning of his capture. There was no telling how ‘nutritious’ the crap in the I.V. had been, and the thought alone curdled his stomach. Better to pretend he’d been starved. Obligingly, his stomach rumbled.

Clint loved him. It kept circling in his head, recited in varying degrees of hope and incredulousness. Clint loved him.

“Well,” Bucky mumbled into his arm, “Lovin’ that idiot’s been one of the easiest things in my life. Figures it’d also be the hardest.” Because it was. And it would be. Especially when both of them carried so many open, festering wounds inside themselves. Wounds Clint kept trying to pretend weren’t there.

And wasn’t that a sobering thought? No matter how Bucky loved him, if Clint refused to begin the process of taking care of himself — of loving himself — then it didn’t really matter how intensely Bucky cared. Didn’t matter how Bucky felt like the world ended on those nights Clint wouldn’t come to bed. Bucky loved, and loved fiercely, but that couldn’t make up for Clint’s lack of it.

“Borrowin’ trouble,” he breathed, biting into his upper arm to quell his thoughts. One step at a time. Step one meant he had to open his damn mouth and say the words he’d been too scared to say until now.

Who was he kidding? He was still terrified of saying them out loud, only to have Clint laugh in his face and tell him to get out of his bed.

Not that he believed Clint to be so cruel. But the idea of Clint’s careful, blank face as he said something like, “Sure. That’s...nice,” honestly hurt worse.

One step at a time, he repeated to himself, slowly pointing his toes towards the door and then back to stretch his lower leg. Clint needed to know he mattered, before anything else. Once he was home, he’d make Clint crawl into bed with him, in the dark, so they could hide while Bucky said things Clint should have heard ages ago.

Maybe the dark would make it easier. For both of them.

The door behind him opened, and he fumbled, catching at the seat underneath himself to stop his sudden fall. Dropping his head back with a glare he said, “What the hell, woman?”

Instead of Natasha’s smirk, he met the cold, unwavering muzzle of a gun pointed right at his face. A hand shot out even as Bucky tried to move, reaching out to twist itself in the fabric of his shirt. With a grunt, the man hauled Bucky free of the SUV, his foot snagging on the gearshift just long enough to pull a strangled shout from Bucky before he hit the pavement.

The impact jarred his lungs, making it difficult to breathe. His skull bounced off the ground, tilting the world enough to leave him dazed and limp. Fire crawled from his still healing wound, the pain enough to snap him out of it.

When he attempted to heave himself up onto his elbows, the gunman snorted and stepped on Bucky’s bad leg, right on the ankle bone. It pulled unpleasantly at the puckered skin up his shin. He stilled, digging his fingertips into the bumps and ridges of the pavement underneath him, teeth clenched.

Wiggling the weapon in Bucky’s face, the guy called, “You got the chick yet?”

Eyes wide, Bucky whipped his head to the side in time to watch Natasha stumble, shoved off the curb by a second gunman, as a third made his way closer around the front of the car. She hit the ground knees first, without so much as a sound. The hood of Tony’s stolen sweater hid her face from their captors. Her hands were at odds with the banked fury in her expression, half tucked into her cuffs, splayed out in the air before her, making her seem smaller. Bucky stared.

She winked, the little shit, anger melting into mischief. The fingers of her left hand curled slightly, tapping at the fabric covering her palms.

Thinning his mouth to prevent a grin, Bucky let himself turn back to the man hovering over him, keeping all four bodies in sight. Trust Nat to have something literally up her sleeve.

The goon pressed down on his leg again, drawing a small, hurt noise from his throat before he could smother it. The guy laughed. Bucky watched as the second man scanned the area with rapid flicks of his eyes, trained mostly on the sky.

“Big, bad soldier, whining over a little ouch like this?” The first man let out a loud guffaw. “Never did get what was so great about you, man.” He took his foot away and kicked the SUV’s door closed. “Get up.”

Slowly, Bucky got to his feet, watching as Nat’s fingers dipped ever lower into her sleeves. Her goon looked away again, scanning the trees this time. The last man seemed more interested in the road than either of them. Bucky bit down on a feral grin.

These three must be some kind of an advance party. Which meant they were alone.

“Kinda disappointed you were so easy to take down, y’know?” The first guy kept talking, entirely too cheerful for Bucky’s taste. His companion muttered some kind of admonishment, but was ignored. “Was hoping for a tussle.”

Natasha’s hands twitched. Something long and thin poked just above the cuffs, held in place by her missing thumbs. Bucky moved, trying to let the sharp whine of her batons wash over him as he rammed shoulder-first into the chatty man’s gut with enough force to throw him back against the car’s door. They didn’t have time for him to flinch, no matter how the sound made his skin crawl. A swift lunge and Bucky wrapped his metal hand around the third man’s head, slamming his face down into the car’s hood.

He spun on his heel in time to see her guard slump into a twitching heap as she rose to her feet. Biting hard on his cheek to still the trembling in his hands, he wrapped a hand around her wrist and yanked her after him, deeper into the darkness. The electric buzz along his spine died as she killed the power to her batons, disentangling herself with an easy twist of her wrist, to pound silently along beside him.

Behind them came the screech of tires and shouts of, “That way!” as a cacophony of boots rang out against the night.

“Son of a _bitch_ ,” Bucky snarled, herding Natasha into the treeline with his larger body. “How the fuck did they find us so fast?”

“Or at all,” she murmured, every line of her body tense as the scene fell back into silence. “I blew up the brewery, remember? They shouldn’t have been in a position to follow.”

The typical nighttime sounds refused to start up, making the hairs at the base of Bucky’s skull stand on end. Where it had been quiet before, broken by the soft chirps and squeaks of bugs, bats, and whatever else woke under the moon, now there was only the soft sound of air scraping its way past his and Nat’s teeth.

“Thoughts?” Bucky breathed into her ear after they’d both relaxed under the shadows. Natasha didn’t answer right away, shifting to peer towards the buildings.

“I called Tony,” she answered finally. “They’re close. We could just slip away, but…”

“They’ll be here soon,” Bucky responded, letting himself slump against the closest tree trunk. Clint was coming. Clint was nearby. Clint was almost there. The thought was so heady, so overwhelming, it nearly dropped him to his knees. “We need visibility.”

“Yep.”

They shared a long look before moving in tandem, keeping to the shadows as they eased back towards the buildings. Movement around the corner had Bucky clapping a hand to Nat’s arm. Keeping a light grip, he led them closer, watching as bodies crashed together and spun apart.

“You make any sense of that?”

She pressed close, her mouth touching skin as she said, “They’re… fighting? Each other?” She sounded mystified. He tried to urge her back. Something had changed, they’d _missed_ something.

“There!”

The voice came from behind them and Natasha loosed a volley of curses in Russian. They bolted, skidding around the front of the building. Something small and shining flew past Bucky’s face, close enough for him to pinwheel his arms as he tried to turn. The knife missed him, but Natasha went down with a grunt, a body on her back.

Bucky hauled him off, hurling him back as Natasha regained her footing. Red hair fell in a wild rush as she flipped it out of her eyes, teeth bared in a fierce snarl. Bucky swallowed, turning his back to hers. The batons came to life in a fizz of energy that raised the hairs along Bucky’s arms and settled on the back of his tongue like copper. He kept his eyes on the shadowed parking lot, trusting her to handle the enemy swiftly as he guarded her six.

Four large vehicles were gathered by the far edge of the parking lot, some with the doors still hanging open. At least one door hung from its hinges, with something—someone—slumped behind the wheel. That didn’t make any sense, but his brain couldn’t couldn’t focus past the hyper awareness of Nat’s electrical weaponry. Knowing they’d found themselves in the middle of some kind of internal war only made it worse, his body twitching with every new shift of air.

The harsh buzz of her nightsticks cut out as Natasha looped an arm through his and urged him between buildings. “Get it together, Barnes,” she murmured. “I need you with me on this.”

“Sorry,” he mumbled, flinching at the way she kept her voice level and calm. He took a deep breath and rolled his shoulders. They crept down the alleyway, away from the parking lot. Bucky counted his steps, each number pulling him back inside his skin even as he scanned for threats.

A scream rent the air on the heels of a familiar, meaty thunk. Bucky’s head snapped up, his body orienting towards the sound before his mind had time to process.

He was _there_ , Bucky just had to _find him—_

“No,” Natasha snapped, shoving him back into the brick. “You’re going to get both of you killed.”

“Nat, I gotta—”

She shouldered him back against the wall with hardly any effort. “You need to think for two goddamn seconds. That wasn’t a close range shot, _Winter_.” Bucky deflated, accepting the reprimand in her use of his code name. “Let’s get through this part first, and then you can climb him like a tree, I don’t care, but that time is not now.”

She canted her head until she caught his eye. “I get that your head is a mess right now, but I need you to shelve that until later, or we’re going to end up dead. And you know it.” Bucky broke first, nodding sheepishly. “Good. Now, I’m betting the rest will make an appearance in a few minutes. We need to get a bead on positions.”

It took somewhere between an eyeblink and an eternity until they circled back to the ladders, bolted into the rear wall of the first building. Too much of his attention was focused on the distant night. It was a persistent thought; the idea that if he listened hard enough, if he strained his eyes enough, he would find Clint. His hand slipped on the metal bars, nearly sending him tumbling back to the ground.

Natasha caught him, her fingers tight around his wrist. She didn’t bother speaking, her judgement clear in her raised brows and pursed mouth.

No matter how foolish, Bucky couldn’t help but watch the edge of the treeline for movement, hoping against hope that Clint would clue him in on his position. Having him so close and still so far away burned at him, itched like wild at the base of his skull. He needed to lay his eyes on the bastard, make sure he was _real_ , outside of his hallucinations.

Behind him, something scuffed along the rough, flat surface of the roof. The tinny sensation boring into the soft spot behind his ears, like spiders walking inside his skin, jerked his attention around. Natasha crouched, her batons pulsing with a gentle blue, making them seem harmless, pretty things.

His lip curled before he caught himself, popping his jaw as though that had been his intent all along.

Nat glanced up at the sky, and twisted the batons, the pulsing becoming a steady blink against the velvet enveloping them. She stood, stepping away from the light. Bucky screwed up his face in confusion, jerking a thumb over his shoulder before his brain caught up.

The lip of the roof would shield the light from the enemy on the ground. They already knew Clint, at least, was nearby, and had an affinity for heights.

Between the steady hum of the electricity and the light broadcasting their position, Bucky couldn’t stop the goosebumps from cascading down his spine. He wanted to stomp on the damn things. Unsteady fingers wrapped around the smooth curve of the hilt on his thigh.

Thor dropped down from nowhere, landing heavily right beside Bucky, who yanked out the knife with a strangled yowl. “My friends!” Thor cried, ignoring the weapon in Bucky’s hand to crush him to his chest, Mjolnir settling beside his feet. Natasha shushed him roughly, only to end up scooped up in her own embrace.

He pulled back, studying her intently with his hands braced on her shoulders. Displeasure creased his face as he turned to Bucky, clamping his broad hands down on Bucky’s shoulders for a similar assessment. “I am glad to have found you,” he started, sounding grave, “but I had hoped to return you to Clint in good health. He is unwell.”

“Where is he,” Bucky surged close, tangling a desperate hand in Thor’s shirt. Gently, Thor guided the knife back into its place. “What’s wrong with him?” His voice seemed loud in the darkness, as the electricity cut out, leaving only pale, weak moonlight to bathe the roof.

“He is here, seeking you.”

“And you let him? _Alone?”_ Bucky would not be held responsible for his actions if Clint managed to hurt himself running around in the dark like an idiot with a death wish. He rushed to the edge of the roof, hands tight on the thigh level barrier as he tried to find movement in the dark.

Thor sighed. “He needs to be useful. Removing a handful of threats will allow him to settle.”

Natasha snorted, prying Bucky away from the edge. “You let him loose to work off some aggression? How does that make sense?”

“In truth, I had hoped the task of finding his paramour would make it more difficult for the demon inside him to rise.”

 _“Demon?”_ Bucky hissed, turning to Natasha. “Demons are a thing now?” Was he fast enough to jump off the roof with both of them right there? Bucky shifted, easing his weight onto his back foot.

“Possible,” she murmured, acknowledging him with the barest inclination of her head.

“He is cursed. Afflicted by something not of Midgard.”

Bucky shoved him, using his metal limb for the greatest impact. “You fucking tell me, right now—”

Natasha stepped between them, forcing them apart with her slim frame. “Shut up, Barnes. Thor, explain. Quickly.”

Bucky let himself stumble back until his legs hit the edge again, his hands trembling. When Thor answered her, Bucky could barely hear past the ringing in his ears.

“I’m afraid I do not have much to tell. Something plagues him, causes him to see things, hear things…”

“That’s not unusual,” Natasha cut in smoothly. “We call it Post Traumatic—”

“No,” Thor swiped a hand across the open air between them. “I know battle sickness well, and what I have seen him suffer with my own eyes bears no resemblance to a heart or mind torn open by war.” Intense dark eyes shifted from Natasha’s confused face to lock eyes with where Bucky stood, his teeth grinding together with enough force for his jaw to squeak.

Thor gave a gusty sigh, seeming to shrink as the breath left his chest. “You did not know.” The Aesir looked away, before turning back with a sharp nod. “He believes Loki to be haunting him. Hurting him.” He scowled, his next words coming out as a deep growl. “Whatever ails him, it is no mere wound, no remnant of battles past. Some feral, vicious energy dwells within him.”

“Of course it’s Loki.” Natasha sounded clinical, detached. Bucky might have bought it, if he hadn’t watched the tremor make its way up her body. He stared at her empty face, his mind a strange, disjointed jungle of emotions.

The name seemed to be the only thing he could hear. Loki. Loki, Loki. _Loki._ Clint had just slanted a smile Bucky’s way and carried on like nothing. And Thor had let the stupid bastard run around on his own like this was a fucking play date.

Christ, and Bucky’d been worried about the ghost of _Phil._ Bile crawled up his throat.

He was _still_ out there, probably getting his ass handed to him left and right since his mind was even _more_ fucked up than Bucky had ever realized, and the other two just… kept… _talking._ Bucky turned, eyes finally catching something shifting underneath the blackness.

“Nay, lady,” Thor rumbled. “My brother remains...” Bucky couldn’t stand there any longer. He vaulted the short wall, pain bursting up his legs as he dropped straight down. Landing flat footed might be hell on his knees, but it gave him a leg up on mobility. He was running before Widow or the Thunder God realized he was gone.

Between one step and the next, Bucky opened the box inside his head, the one he wrapped in thick chains with countless locks. The Winter Soldier didn’t live there, not really, but all the things Bucky wasn’t sure were _Bucky_ did.

Now, he called on the cold, ruthless parts of himself; the parts that latched onto his goal with single minded intensity, let him focus on Clint without panicking, let him barrel through his enemies and leave a trail of broken, bloodied bodies without a second thought.

It sang through his blood, his mind and body harmonious and free. He’d let himself get bogged down by his ideas of what Bucky Barnes _should_ have been. In the end, it didn’t matter. He was who and what he was, and in that moment he found himself nothing less than fervently grateful.

Bucky spun, snapping his leg out to connect with a man’s chest and send him tumbling back. There was no telling where in this hellhole Clint had squirreled himself away, but he would be somewhere in the thick of it, too emotional to realize how shitty his plan was.

Someone snagged his hoodie from behind, and yanked, nearly sending him sprawling. With a snarl, Bucky ripped his arm free of the sleeve, letting the other person’s weight haul the rest of it off. He pivoted, hands fisted and up by his face, only to be met with a high heeled boot, aiming for his gut.

He caught the woman’s leg by the ankle and pulled. Instead of falling, she threw herself into it, letting her body collapse against his with a hoarse laugh. Her palm caught him under the chin, slamming his head back. She slithered free of his grip and went right into another kick, this time aimed at his legs. He blocked it with his own leg, and retaliated with a swing of his own. The woman skittered away.

“You’re not getting out of this, Soldier,” she called, hands busy at the lump on her hip. “We weren’t done with you yet.”

“Too fucking bad,” Bucky snarled, advancing with heavy steps. All the anger, all the fear, all the uncertainty of the last few days seemed to boil under his skin at her mocking laugh. He wanted to wrap his hands around her throat and watch as the light left her eyes. His life wasn’t a fucking plaything.

Her arm drew back, and something heavy rustled along the ground just as light burst along the horizon, confusing Bucky for a second too long. The whip snapped out with a vicious crack and Bucky barely got his bionic arm up in time to prevent it from wrapping around his own throat. Instinctively, he hauled his arm back, dragging her along with her weapon.

A twist of her wrist and the leather fell away from him, to coil at her feet. She angled her arm for a second strike.

Out of nowhere, a man appeared, colliding with the whip woman, slamming her down into the ground. Bucky blinked at the space she’d been for a beat, before swiftly looking around, making sure no other minions lingered nearby. Distantly, he could hear shouts, Thor’s bellows and the crackle of Natasha’s widow bites, but the area nearby remained barren. When he looked back, another burst of light lit up the sky, and Bucky’s heart stopped in his chest.

Clint half lay on top of the woman, attempting to wrestle her down. Clint, with his stupid shaggy hair, skin tight suit and awful snarking. Bucky was running, shouting, but he didn’t know what.

The woman’s fist caught Clint square across the face, hard enough to nearly rock him right off his precarious position her hips. Cursing, Bucky put on a burst of speed as Clint was dumped into the dirt and the enemy rose to her feet, her whip raised.

He caught her by the wrist, squeezing hard. She gave a gasp that went ignored as Bucky took in the way Clint swayed on his knees, blood turning the lower half of his face black.

It definitely meant he was unhinged, but Bucky wanted to kiss him anyway. He forced the woman to her knees with a rough shove, tightening his grip on her wrist until her fingers spasmed. As he watched Clint’s eyes narrow, he ran back through the words he’d heard but hadn’t processed. And wait.

“You _know_ her?” Bucky shot the woman an incredulous look. Clint’d mentioned some of his less than stellar prior relationships. From the way he was glaring, it seemed like Bucky might be holding one of them.

“Hi, babe,” Clint said past the blood clogging his nose and throat. “I missed you too. Glad you’re not…” he flapped a hand, suddenly looking lost. “Y’know. A zombie.” Inexplicably, Clint tilted his head up, which forced all the blood towards his throat, like he wanted to sit there and choke to death on his own nosebleed.

Bucky could only stare, his free hand going out to press the woman back down to her knees by her head. She was snarling what sounded like curses in a language Bucky didn’t know.

“Tilt your head down, you fucking idiot, before you drown in your own blood.” If he’d had a free hand, he might’ve face palmed out of sheer exasperation. Or shaken him until some common sense fell into his head. What the hell had he been thinking?

Clint squinted up at him before dropping his eyes. “Are you mad at me?” He sounded hurt and that—that wasn’t acceptable. Kneeling, bruised, bloody and _sad_ —he looked pathetic, small, and half a breath from breaking. Bucky couldn’t take it.

Planting his foot in the middle of the woman’s back, he sent her sprawling onto her stomach. She caught herself with her hands, which gave out when Bucky dropped himself down on her back. Ignoring her snarling and fruitless writhing, he caught her hands and twined the whip around them, before twisting so he could secure each ankle, effectively hogtying her. Standing, he watched her fight her makeshift restraints, before deciding he’d done a good enough job to ignore her for a minute.

Stepping over the bound woman, Bucky dropped down before Clint, settling his weight on his toes, his arms resting on his knees. It hurt, the way Clint flinched and kept his eyes trained on the ground. Licking his lips, Bucky reached out, cupping Clint’s face with one hand, his touch light enough for him to feel individual hairs shifting.

Clint swallowed, his eyes slipping shut as he tilted his head into the touch before finally, finally raising his head and his eyes to Bucky’s. For a moment, time itself stopped. Nothing existed beyond the suffocating midnight blanket, nothing mattered beyond the wetness gathering at the edges of Clint’s eyes.

The effort he put into hiding his emotions sat clear on his face, and did little to hide how wrecked he felt: his mouth wavered between pursed and trembling, his gaze couldn’t catch Bucky’s for more than a second before skittering away, only to flicker right back. The hollows under his eyes seemed endless.

Bucky smoothed his thumb along Clint’s lip, distantly noting how he smeared blood across Clint’s pale, pale skin. More importantly, the rough drag of Clint’s mouth went lax under his touch, and his shoulders dropped, even as his face cycled through confusion and apprehension, only to settle on hesitantly pleased.

God, but he loved the disaster in front of him. Realistically, he knew they’d only been separated for a few days, knew he’d had his hand on him for a bare handful of seconds, but from how he wanted to drop forward and bury his face in the curve of Clint’s neck, it may as well have been decades he’d been gone, and the brief touch would never be enough.

Words tumbled from his traitorous mouth, but his attention centered on the ripple of expressions across Clint’s face. And then Clint squared his shoulders, his jaw going firm and determined, his eyes hard and challenging.

When he spoke, it was in a rush, stripped down and shaking with the unnamed things swirling in his eyes. But it was the need which reached out and punched its way across Bucky’s gut, the fierceness, the desperation in those handful of words tripping from Clint’s bitten, bloody lips.

“I will _always_ come for you, Buck. _Always_.”

Bucky found himself on his knees, his body nestled as close to Clint’s as he could get without climbing inside his very skin and sinew. His hands did their best to fit themselves under the edges of the ridiculous helmet covering Clint’s head. Tears blurred the world between one heartbeat and the next, and he barely managed to croak out a response to the declaration—because it was, it was, even if Bucky wasn’t completely sure what had just been set into stone.

The kiss he allowed himself was too brief by far, his ears still ringing with the sweet, cut off noise Clint made, not marred in the least by the tang of copper coating his tongue. The blood belonged to Clint, and it seemed only right for Bucky to take it into himself, his personal communion. He pulled back, mouth tacky, and scraped his fingers when he forgot the ridiculous headgear.

“Why’re you wearing Thor’s hat, anyway?”

Behind him, loud enough to echo, came the heavy _snick-click_ of a handgun slide being yanked back. The woman’s voice, Viper, she went by Viper, rang out next, and Bucky’s fingers slid down Clint’s body, slowly, carefully, before he lost his temper and let his fingers clench too tightly.

Idiot, he snarled to himself, over and over. Fucking _idiot_. He was going to end up getting one or both of them shot because he was too busy making cow eyes to pay attention to his surroundings in the _middle of a goddamn fight._

If Steve didn’t kill him, he might just do it himself. After he was done laughing himself sick.They finally figure out how to start using their words, and it was in the middle of this fucking shitshow. Bucky had to bite down on a fierce, if wry, grin.

He let Clint prattle, hardly bothering to respond, knowing the chatter would cover how he palmed a knife from Clint’s suit. Clint, cleverer than he liked to pretend, mirrored the move, his finger pressing a countdown lightly against Bucky’s skin, eyes steady on the threat behind Bucky.

They moved in unison, Bucky exploding into motion the moment he tapped his own finger against Clint’s chest, curling his body away from Clint’s to give him room to maneuver.

Viper’s whip moved too fast to see, scoring a hit along his flank as he dodged. He stood, catching Clint grappling for control of the gun as he twisted away from another snap of leather. “Clint!” Bucky chucked the blade and ran straight for Viper, trusting his aim and Clint’s reflexes. A satisfying _thunk_ and gurgle let him know he’d hit his mark.

She was fast, nimble and vicious on her feet, but Bucky had the reach, the muscle mass and the burning desire to put her down spurring him on. It took only a moment before he caught her around the throat, pinning her back against his larger body as he held her wrists captive.

“Goes by Viper,” Clint rasped, but Bucky focused on the fresh bruises already coloring his skin. The woman’s wrist twisted suddenly, breaking Bucky’s hold, and before he knew it he was flying, her tiny hands belying the strength in them as she hurled him over her shoulder. He landed heavily, and had to shake away the spots in his eyes.

“I am Madam Hydra,” she screeched, her whip slapping him across the face. It hurt, but the weapon lashed out towards Clint next and Bucky wanted to _shred her_ with his fingernails. The need to wrap his hands around her throat and squeeze until her face turned purple shot up his spine, leaving him shaking and grinding his teeth. He barreled forward.

Something metallic crashed to the ground, and the whip snaked out again, focused on him once more. Bucky had to skid to a stop, bracing himself as he raised his inhuman limb, and let it coil around his arm. Seething, he fisted his free hand around the leather and yanked, knocking her off her feet. She relinquished her grip, sending him stumbling back at the lack of resistance.

Off to the side, Clint had lost the fucking plot. Hands raised, he was mumbling to himself, wide eyed and inching back from nothing.

“What the hell are you doing?” Bucky shouted, heart pounding more from fear now than anything else. Viper took his legs out from under him with a swift, hard blow to his knee, tugging the whip from his grip. They fell into a flurry of blows, fists and feet flying as they advanced and dodged, Bucky trying to split his attention between Clint’s shaking form and the savage woman before him.

It gave her too many opportunities. The whip wrapped itself around his throat, coiling tighter as his hands scrabbled along its slick surface. She used her hold to throw him, her body undulating with the force behind her movements.

Whatever Clint saw superseded reality, since he gave no reaction to Bucky landing in a painful heap a mere handful of feet away. Staring off into some middle distance, Clint’s throat moved, the bloodlessness of his skin stark against his dark suit. Bucky shot a crazed look towards where Viper threw her weapon out again and scrambled closer to Clint. Leather curled around Clint’s ankle and he went down with a strangled shout.

Bucky dropped down over him, wrapping his hands around unresponsive shoulders. He slapped Clint, a quick, open handed tap to his cheek. “C’mon, doll,” he begged, scanning the dark for bodies. “What the fuck is going on?”

Whatever this was, it was new, worse, than what Bucky’d seen before. Clint looked wrecked, terrified, half dead. Bucky’s heart galloped fast enough for him to taste it in the back of his throat as his fingers flexed over Clint’s arms. He didn’t know what to _do_ , didn’t know how to snap him out of it, didn’t know how to handle the idea that Clint might not be able to crawl back out of his own head.

The whip’s snap rent the air, the thin tip of the tail laying open Bucky’s back in a white hot burst through the useless cotton of his shirt. Hands pressed against his chest, shoving him back. His gaze flew to Clint’s face. _“_ Go,” Clint urged, suddenly focused and aware. “I’m good, _go_.”

And he wasn’t, he _wasn’t_ , but Bucky could hear the whip again, could hear feet pounding as they drew closer. Whatever was wrong with Clint, if Bucky pulled this stunt again, they’d both be dead. His eyes darted over Clint’s resolute face, wavering, suddenly drowning in the knowledge that no matter what he chose, it would be the wrong path. Bucky turned, and ran, left him behind, and hated himself with each step.

If he could put her down hard enough, fast enough, he could spirit Clint into the woods. They could wait for everyone else to deal with the fallout, while Bucky handled Clint’s… episode.

Viper laughed, the whip arcing out like a lover’s caress gone wrong. Bucky let it come, snatching it from the air at the last second. He pivoted, using all of his enhanced strength to pull it straight from her hands into the air. The handle fell neatly into his hand. Wrapping the ends around his hands, it took only a moment to rip it in two and drop it.

Silver glittered as she pulled out a pair of delicate knives, bodies melting out of the night to arrange themselves at her back.

Light bloomed in the sky, Thor barreling down from the heavens to crash into the ground beside Bucky, Natasha clinging to his back. Bucky gave a wild, bloody smile, squinting up to see a Quinjet hovering high above, flood light bathing the area, Tony hovering beside it. Steve, idiot that he was, launched himself out of the plane, rolling neatly on impact.

Which, of course, meant Viper and her crew tucked tail and ran off into the shadows, Natasha, Cap and Thor in hot pursuit.

Bucky gave Tony a vague wave as the Iron Man suit landed. A strong breeze might topple him, he thought, given the rollercoaster of the last however-long. He turned back, intent on gathering Clint up and getting to the bottom of whatever had just happened.

Except, the spot where Clint stood held nothing but crisp air. Spots swirled before Bucky’s eyes, his heart kicking into overdrive, his throat closing up against the need to shout the man’s name. He spun, searching the area frantically, ignoring whatever Tony tried to say.

A hard hand clamped on his arm. “There!” Tony pulled him around, pointing towards movement by the distant parking lot. “Jarvis, zoom—”

But Bucky would know Clint’s body anywhere, in any condition, knew the sheen of his sandy hair and the curve of his hips. Clint was slung over someone’s shoulder in a fireman’s carry. Clint was being taken, walked up a ramp to a plane which seemed to appear from thin air.

Bucky bellowed, a wordless roar of the things building up in his chest. He was running, flat out, Iron Man streaking over his head in a blur of heat and motion as the plane’s ramp slid away, the door swinging closed to block Clint’s limp, unconscious body from Bucky’s eyes. The plane moved, easing into the sky, Tony right beside it, repulsors glowing as he aimed, only for the glow in his palms to cut out. Bucky ran faster, panting and stumbling as he tried in vail to keep pace with the aircraft. Iron Man slung over the plane, slapping its belly, before dropping down and away as the jet holding Clint vanished from sight.

Rage carried Bucky the last few yards, his body crashing hard into the red and gold armor, sending them both to the ground. “What did you do,” Bucky ground out, somewhere between a howl and begging. “You let them go—”

“I had to,” Tony snapped, wrestling Bucky off him and popping his helmet up. “Something on that jet registered as an unknown explosive, I can’t shoot it out of the sky when I don’t know if it’ll blow the fuck up and _kill everyone including Clint,_ oh my god, it’s like none of you _think!”_

Bucky let Tony shove him onto his back, where he lay, limp and shaking. The sky seemed to fall on him, suffocating him, the tiny pinpricks of light pulling him in too many directions at once. He’d had him. He’d had Clint in his hands and lost him not two minutes later.  
  
Hydra had Clint.

That thought spurred him to action, dragging his aching body upright, ignoring the way Tony shifted to support him. “I managed to pop a tracer on,” he said, guiding Bucky back towards the jet’s light. “We’ll get him back. We just need a minute to regroup, hack into the systems.” When Bucky grunted, Tony’s gauntleted hand gripped his chin, hard enough to bruise. “We will get him back,” Tony repeated, eyes flinty.

Gentle fingers pressed a communication unit into Bucky’s ear as Tony said, “Bruce, get that thing down here, already. Cap, status?”

“Got most of ‘em under wraps,” Steve’s tinny voice responded inside Bucky’s ear. “Nat’s gone after the black-haired woman.”

“Good. Got a teensy situation over here. I need Thor,” Tony beckoned Bucky onto the plane as Bruce settled it down nearby.

“Situation?”

“Clint’s been taken,” Bucky answered, grim and dark as he marched straight to where the spare uniforms were kept, stripped off his ruined street clothes with efficient movements. Sliding into the specially reinforced, armored fabric helped his brain to settle. This ended, one way or another, right now.

“We’ll be there in—”

“No,” Bucky cut him off, “Tell Thor to get back to the jet, you finish up what you’re doing, but I gotta go after him, _now.”_ Quieter, he added, “I ain’t losin’ him, Stevie. Not even for a minute.”

After a beat, Steve sighed something about pea pods and gave an affirmative. “Keep me in the loop,” he said, exiting the conversation.

“What’s the plan, Iron Man?”

Tony watched him for a moment, sharp lines creasing his face. “It’s going to suck for you, Winter.”

Bucky paused, cocking his head to stare at Tony, one eyebrow partially cocked.

“Don’t say I didn’t warn you. Planes are fast. Thor and I are faster. Give me a minute to analyze that signature onboard,” Tony shrugged, eyes steady on Bucky’s as Thor landed with a soft _whump_ outside, “and then it’s your show, Barnes.”


	16. Chapter 16

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Clint's turn to play damsel in distress. He's ready for the nap, now.

Clint jerked, consciousness slamming into him in a dizzy, disorienting rush. Trying to get his feet underneath himself, his skull hit something hard and unyielding, toppling him back. He didn’t bother stifling the groan, stars dancing behind his eyelids. “Fuck.”

His arms hurt. Everything hurt, but the pinch between his shoulder blades and the pounding in his hands were hardest to ignore. Clint tried to roll them, only to belatedly realize his hands were bound behind his back. “The hell,” he mumbled, craning his head over his shoulder to look.

All at once, his brain caught up. “Oh no,” he said, “c’mon, no, no, please be kidding.”

Clint’s wrists were bound together at the small of his back with a simple, white ziptie. His hands were purplish, so he’d either been like this for a while or the idiot who’d put it there had cinched it too tightly. Not good.

Groaning, Clint rolled his head around, taking in his spartan prison. Aside from the table thing he’d woken up under, the enclosure was empty. Whoever’d snatched him had taken his bow and quiver. Or left them wherever they’d fallen.

He wiggled, closing his eyes and concentrating on his clothes. From the slight drag of the fabric, they hadn’t done a thorough pat down. Opening his eyes, Clint let a smirk flash across his face. Always underestimated. No one seemed to think the marksman with the palaeolithic sticks might have a few tricks.

Which was both hilarious and insulting all in one, but Clint had long since learned to accept it as the gift it was.

The floor dipped underneath him, sending his stomach into his throat and snapping his attention back. There was no way to mistake that for anything other than what it was. Plane, he was on some kind of stripped down, remodeled freaking airplane.

Forcing his awareness back onto his surroundings helped stave off a panic attack. Some kind of energy formed his cage within a cage, since the dome, made of thin, wobbling lines of orange, lay in the center of an empty space, more a storage unit than a room. The walls of the room itself were giant metal sheets.

Clint eyed the rivets along the inner wall, letting his gaze wander over the boxes jutting off its surface, full of buttons and switches. The last thing he remembered was Loki, Bucky’s voice small and frantic in his ears. Which meant he’d somehow managed to get kidnapped while attempting to rescue Bucky from a kidnapping.

“Isn’t it ironic,” he breathed, snorting to himself. “Yeah, I really do think.” Every shift seemed to tug at his arms, the ache steadily growing into a sharp blade aimed at his lungs.

At least Loki seemed to have wandered off. Small mercy, but one Clint was fervently thankful for.

Think small, Barton. Break it down. Step one? Free your hands. He could almost hear the dry quality of Phil’s voice before he shook it away. Buck and company should be hot on his heels, so he needed to do more than sit on his ass.

Assuming they’d noticed he’d been taken. Assuming they wanted him back, shitshow that he was.

Clint scooted himself out from under the table, pointedly shutting those thoughts down. He could pull the emo kid routine later. Cringing preemptively, he sucked in a breath. Flexing his thighs, he bounced, trying to slip his hands under his butt. Instead, he landed right on them, crushing his wrists under his butt and bruising his tailbone. He bit his lip to stifle his cry. “Gotta jump higher, idiot,” he mumbled, sweating from the pain.

It took another two tries before he managed to hook his hands under his thighs. Then, it was only a matter of pulling his legs free. He wiggled his wrists as high as they would go and swallowed. Cuffs, with the short chain between them, had more give than the zip tie. No matter how flexible Clint was, this would be unpleasant.

Understatement.

Forcing one leg underneath the zip tie hurt, caused the plastic to dig deep into his wrists. Clint could feel his skin shredding, adding to his blood loss as his nerves pinched and his bones ground together. He kneed himself in his already abused nose and had to stop, gasping for air. His boot cuff snagged on the plastic and he bit through his lip to keep quiet.

Freeing the second leg was much easier. He lay back, hands dark and swollen against the cool floor.

“Okay, Barton,” he wheezed. “Part two.” With his clumsy, thick fingers, Clint untied his boots. Cursing into his shoulder, he fed one shoelace between his hands, looping it over the zip tie and pulling it taunt. Tying the shoelaces together left him gasping, subvocal whines tearing at his throat as his wrists burned, blood pulsing homily at his fingertips.

“Fuck, okay.” Clint held his hands up, and sank his teeth into his bicep. Leaning back, he lifted his feet off the floor, and pulled the left leg up while the right leg went down. Back and forth, like riding a bike, the shoestring wearing away at the thin strip of plastic at his wrists. It fucking _hurt_.

The zip tie gave way with a tiny snap and Clint went limp against the floor, panting and sweat soaked. He let himself tremble until his breathing was back under control. Ignoring the warm, wet trickles over his skin, Clint sat up and retied his boots properly.

Step one down. What the fuck was step two?

“Impressive,” came a voice Clint couldn’t place. German, male, amused. “I will have to keep that trick in mind next time.”

Clint braced himself on his elbows, hissing as his wrists complained, hot and painful as he levered himself off the floor. “What the fuck,” he blurted, more confused than he’d ever been in his life.

A man stood just inside the door, dressed in the same black paramilitary gear as the other Hydra operatives. But his face was bright crimson, skin molded tightly to the bone underneath, his eyes sunk deep into the hollows of his eyesockets.

“You’re dead,” Clint said, stupidly.

“Ah,” Skull responded, smiling as he stepped in and shut the door behind him. Hands clasped behind his back, he continued, “I’m afraid the rumors of my demise bear as much fruit as those of our dear Captain.”

“What the _fuck_ ,” Clint repeated. Red Skull smiled, the skin around his nearly lipless mouth and eyes too tight to crinkle.

“Hmm?”

“I quit,” Clint said, flat. “I’m done.”

“Oh, but we have just begun, _mein freund_ ,” Skull replied, turning to pace around the outside of the dome. “I have spent the last seventy years waiting; I will not fail this time.” He paused, a sly smile slanted towards Clint. “It has been foretold, you see?”

Clint heaved himself to his feet, arms tight to his chest as he flexed the pins and needles from his clumsy hands. “Dude,” he said, resigned to the insanity that was his life. “Fortune tellers are a scam, bro, sorry. Trust me, I worked for a circus. If they’re legit, they keep their mouths shut.”

Lesson whatever number: keep the bad guy chattering. They’ll let more drop than they mean to, and it will give the rescue crew more time.

He must have been taken right under Bucky’s nose. Buck would find him. Clint could play Rapunzel this time, and wait around until Buck showed up. So long as it didn’t result in him somehow birthing twins in a desert and Bucky going blind for a while. The original fairy tales were some dark shit. Not that his life was really any less full of dark, twisted bullshit.

“Wait,” Clint said, realization zinging up his spine. “You’re the red Hydra. Viper’s the green Hydra?”

“Viper is a child who wishes to be Queen,” Skull remarked. “She will not take Hydra from me.” A lazy handwave dismissed the whole topic.

“That’s what this, this whole,” Clint waved his elbows around, unable to stop himself from gesturing but leery of his still bleeding wrists, “freaking mess was? You were after Bucky, so she took him first.”

Skull inclined his head, spreading one hand out before him. “But wait, - why the hell’d you take me? I’m not— I’m the _arrow_ guy.” Clint scrunched his face up. He wasn’t complaining, no, out of the two of them, he’d pick himself over Bucky for crap like this every day. “I’m _literally_ the most useless dude for you to snatch. I don’t get it.”

He froze, then, biting into his cheek to keep quiet. Clint couldn't remember anything past losing the helmet and Loki’s face falling off. There was no reason to assume Skull hadn’t also taken Bucky. Quiet, cold dread filled the pit of his stomach, edging out into his limbs as the thought circled in his head.

“I didn’t die in that plane,” Skull started, resuming his pacing, spine straight. “I spent decades trapped inside the Tesseract, locked inside the space gem. It showed me things, showed me future after future, showed me how I might replace the old Gods, if I could just gather the gems.” He ticked them off with his fingers as he passed in front of Clint. “Space, Time. Reality. Power. Mind, Soul. Each stone full of unimaginable powers, powers which only multiply when they are united.”

The Tesseract was a gem? Maybe the ‘space gem’ was inside the box, Clint thought. He blinked, gnawing at his lip, only to wince. He’d forgotten about the hole in his lip, soothing it with his tongue. After a while, it was difficult to keep track of the specifics behind the whole-body hurt.

“They are kept separate, scattered across all the known realms, because those with weak minds fear their powers. But they seek one another out, you see? They call to each other.” Skull stopped, his hands once again clasped behind his back as he stared at Clint with raw hunger in his sunken, inhuman eyes.

“I carry part of the Tesseract with me,” Skull said, tapping his temple with two fingers. “After so long inside it, I would recognize its… taste, one could say. Anywhere. You have a similar...” Skull trailed off, canting his head in thought as his eyes roved over Clint.

“You do not feel like the Tesseract, but you do feel like a gem. It is faint, faint enough that even Arnim’s cage disrupts it, but still, it is there. I can taste it.” Skull paused, rolling his shoulders back as he stood at attention.

“I can collect _mein Soldat_ at any time, but you?” Skull murmured, his voice going low and full of wonder, greed. “You _call_ to me, just as the gems call to their brothers.”

Clint stepped back. At least that meant he didn’t have Bucky after all. He could work with that. Skull eyeing him like he wanted to bite down until he reached Clint’s gooey center? Not so much.

“So tell me, archer: which one has left its mark on you?” Skull pressed closer to the faint, crackling energy of Clint's prison. “Where is your gem?”

“Okay, I think you got the wrong guy,” Clint answered, hating how his voice went high and squeaky. “Definitely no mystical magical rock thingie on me. Just, uh.” He glanced down at himself briefly. “Blood. And dirt. And probably more blood. Sorry, man.”

Red Skull threw his head back and laughed, strong, hearty guffaws that rocked his shoulders. He eased back, away from the thin orange bars, shaking his head. “Come now, _mein freund_ , you are not so foolish as you pretend. You have noticed it, the crawling under your skin, the way your thoughts are not quite your own. The way it is always _hungry_ , always searching.”

“Post. Traumatic. Stress. Disorder. It’s a whole thing, now, shell shock?” Clint twiddled his hands around his head, ignoring the way the skin shifted, new trickles of red inching down his arms. “I’m nuts?”

“Is that a question, or a reply?”

“Oh, are you a shrink now, too?”

“If you wish to feign ignorance, it is no matter.” Skull shrugged, wandering towards the far wall. “It will not keep me from locating your gem.” He turned back to face Clint, hands dropping down to his sides. “Although I must ask—who, exactly, is Loki?”

The blood drained from Clint’s face, rapid enough to leave him lightheaded. “What,” he asked, unsteady on his feet. He couldn’t think of a single reason for him to know that name. No one knew that name, unless they’d been part of the Avenger’s crew that day. Most of SHIELD didn’t know the alien’s name.

Skull reached out with one hand, running his fingers along a panel Clint had noticed earlier. “Loki,” he repeated. “You were choking on his name before you fell unconscious.” Skull tilted his head, his narrowed stare fixed on Clint. “Perhaps I ought to see him for myself, yes?”

“Oh, shit,” Clint breathed, as Skull punched a button down. The barrier fell, and with it, Clint’s shield against the monster in his head.

Between one beat of his heart and the next, the monster himself appeared. And he was monstrous. Clint gave a strangled, bitten off shriek, and stumbled back, sprawling against the table as he fought to turn his gaze away. The longer he stared, the worse it became.

Loki’s face caused Clint’s stomach to roil unhappily. His gleaming, round eyes rolled easily in the meat of his face, the thick, red ropes of his muscles on full display over the wet, white shine of bone. He made as though to smile, his jaw dropping open, muscles flexing over the hinge as what remained of his lower lip curled up. His top lip was gone, just like his nose. His hair and ears were more suggestions than the real thing. The flesh of his throat and hands were no better— Clint could see the creature’s trachea, the pulsing of his veins, the tendons which curled his fingers.

He found himself grateful that so much of Loki was hidden underneath his armor. Clint didn’t have to see what remained of his torso.

The dome flickered back into existence, shredding Loki’s destroyed body into nothing.

Clint collapsed further onto the table, gasping. His elbow bumped into something cold. He grasped at that information, turning to examine the tabletop, shoving the image as far back in his brain as he could. Restraints decorated the table at each corner, thick metal manacles shining dully under the light.

“Care to cooperate now, Avenger?”

Clint dragged his eyes away from the table. Skull, smug and cruel, kept his hand over the release button, caressing it like one would a lazy cat. One crazy bastard for another, Clint thought. Wasn’t much he could do. He swallowed.

Bucky was coming. He held that knowledge close, sinking into it to keep his sanity. Bucky was coming. And he could handle Loki. Hopefully. He’d done okay, so far. Especially when Phil decided to desert and help him.

He felt his eyes widen. Phil. He hadn’t even thought about Phil since his grand sacrificial lamb crap. Loki was degrading into some nightmare thing—could he pull Phil back, now? Remake him, or slip him past Loki’s deficiencies?  
  
“I shall take the silence as a negative, then.”

Clint flicked his eyes back to Skull, watching as he smashed the release a second time. “Bring it on,” he ground out as the burnt orange strings disappeared, all false bravado and stubbornness. He hadn’t broken under the nightmare his life had been this far, managed just fine before Phil or Bucky. Might as well keep the trend going.

Except, per usual, the ‘make it up as he goes’ plan fell to shit straight off. Loki reappeared, still zombified, and directly in front of Clint. He might have screamed, a little. Pinned between the table and the astral projection from hell, Clint threw a wild, uncoordinated punch.

Loki caught his fist. Halted it in midair, rather than letting it sail straight through him. He smiled. Long, disgusting finger bones held Clint easily, slicking Clint’s skin with thick, clear fluid. Too fast to follow, Loki lunged in, wrapping his free hand around Clint’s throat. He heaved Clint up, holding him aloft so his toes barely scraped the floor. He released Clint’s fist in favor of watching Clint’s hands scrabble at Loki’s arm.

Clint hung, legs kicking out uselessly as he fought for air. Wrapping both hands around Loki’s knobby wrist bones, Clint tried to force his body higher, to take the pressure off his throat in the world’s most fucked up pull up attempt. His arms burned, the mangled skin around his own wrists screaming in protest.

Loki laughed, the sound harsh and cruel, dragging nails down Clint’s spine. One quick, hard movement and Clint found himself airborne. He landed in a boneless heap, just outside the edges of his former prison. His hip was going to have a nasty bruise by morning.

He snorted. If he lived ‘til then. Loki had managed to hurt him before, but not like this. Not so straightforward, so carelessly.

“Fuck, Phil,” Clint climbed to his feet, hissing at the newest layer of aches. “Any time on that whole Big Bad Wolf thing would be nice.”

Loki stalked after him, fury still clear in the set of his ruined jaw. Clint ducked the first punch, blocked the second, and completely missed the third. He doubled over Loki’s fist as it buried itself in his guts.

Red Skull hummed, somewhere to his left. “Whichever gem holds sway over you is no kinder than my own. Though this seems to exist only inside your mind. But is it the Mind gem? Or could it be Soul?”

Clint tuned him out. “Phil,” he gasped, rolling with the fourth punch.

“I can’t help,” came Phil’s voice, right beside his ear. “This is different.”

“Got that, yeah.” Loki kept coming, his swings growing more and more unpredictable. Clint gave up offense when his leg sliced right through Loki’s head, only for Loki to wrap a hand around his calf and yank him off his feet.

“You haven’t thought about me, not really, since you found out Bucky was snatched. You were doing so well, Barton. Don’t fall back into thinking you need me now. Focus on shutting whatever this is down.”

“Trying,” Clint wheezed, rolling himself away from a vicious kick. “But you’re Yoda, so—oh, _shit_.” He scrambled to his feet.

Loki pulled twin knives from somewhere, spinning them gracefully in the air before settling the hilts along his palms.

“Let me go,” Phil’s voice urged. “Keeping me close like this is distracting you, making it easier for him to work.”

“Dunno what I’m doing,” Clint yelped, throwing his body into a slide as the blades sliced too close to his face. A hand clamped down on his shoulder, hauling him upright.

“Mind,” Red Skull remarked, eyes avid on Clint’s face. “It must be the Mind Stone. It’s turned your brain against you. But how can it hurt you, if it’s in your head?”

“You do,” Phil sighed. “Stop playing stupid. _Think_. And for Christ’s sake, _let me go._ You don't need me.”

Ice crawled up his spine, sank into his lungs, filled his skin with the deadly crackle of a glacier ready to collapse. Loki’s hands ran down his arms, sinking into his body, leaving a frozen mist along his bones.

Skull shook him, forcing his attention back to himself. “Where is the stone?” he spat into Clint’s face.

“Dunno,” Clint tried to say. Instead, Loki’s deranged, shrill giggle leaked from his lips. He could hear Phil’s quiet curse, inside his head this time. Clint’s hand moved, fingers shoving under the Skull’s sleeve to touch skin. It burned, but his scream never left his throat.

“Where is your stone, mortal? Where have you lost the Tesseract? Give it to me,” Loki’s voice, from his mouth.

Skull slammed him back, against the panels. His head cracked against the sharp edges. “What magic is this,” he snarled.

Clint lost himself in the panic. Loki was in his head, Loki was moving his body, calling the shots, making him _do things_. He couldn’t breathe past the band around his heart.

“Focus, Barton,” Phil cried, frustrated.

But Clint had clocked out again, curled in on himself inside his own head, childlike and terrified.

“The magic which you sought,” Loki replied, mocking Skull’s question with Clint’s mouth. “Just as I seek the seed left in you. I will rip it from you with my bare hands. I will devour it, and it will lead me to the gems themselves.”

“Hawkeye,” Phil cut in through the oppressive cloud in Clint’s head, his voice like thunder. “Now.”

He’d been conditioned to respond to that tone in Phil’s voice, and now was no exception. Even as his hands moved, even as his fingers dug into the hot skin of Skull’s face, Clint focused on Phil’s voice.

“Something doesn’t add up, everything is wrong. This is your brain, so _use_ it.”

Phil told him Loki fed off the darker side of his emotions. But Phil had taken Clint’s guilt and sorrow and used it to separate himself, to grow independent. Phil was faint now, then, because Clint… hadn’t been feeding him. Too focused on Bucky to drown himself in self-loathing over Phil.

Loki’s laughter spilled from his mouth again as the thought hit Clint low in the gut. Clint watched as Skull wrenched his head free, ten bloody furrows decorating his face.

Skull backhanded Clint, the giggles barely pausing as his head whipped to the side.

When Clint dove head first into the need to get Bucky back, Loki had begun to fall apart.

His body moved, sidestepping another swipe from Skull. “I will be free,” his mouth said. Loki said. Except, that wasn’t Loki at all, was it? Clint’s leg lashed out, sweeping Skull to the floor. His body dropped onto Skull’s, straddling his waist as his fingers curled around Skull’s throat. His hands tightened, with a strength that never belonged to Clint’s human body.

Bucky. Bucky had been the key, all along. Bucky had pushed Phil into nothingness, Bucky had kept the thing in his head at bay. Bucky kept Clint centered, content.

Happy, when Clint let himself be.

But that wasn’t right either. Bucky might be why he was happier, but he didn’t control Clint’s happiness. Clint did. So really, Clint was the linchpin, the thing that kept the magical mindfuck spinning. Bucky reminded him that life could be more than the disaster in his head.

Skull rolled them, breaking free of Clint’s superhuman grip. He twisted his hands in Clint’s belt and flung him away, bellowing insults.

Cling lay where he fell, bruised, bleeding, and possibly possessed. He flashed back to his dream, to Natasha’s lifeless body. He remembered being trapped in ice, under Loki’s spell, aware but distant, unreal. Unmade. His body stood, reaching for knives in places he’d never carried them.

He gave himself permission to be happy, to fight back. “Bye, Phil,” he said, his mouth never moving.

He remembered Bucky. The way his smiles had transitioned from a slight crinkle around his eyes to a full, open mouthed grin. He remembered learning Bucky slipped into his Brooklyn drawl when he was feeling mischievous, pleased. Clint thought of the way Bucky refused to fear his own arm, letting Tony pull it apart again and again. He remembered nights spent on the roof of the tower, half drunk and searching for shapes in the stars. He remembered the first night Bucky crawled into his bed, shaking and cold, eyes wild. He remembered how Buck got up every morning and wrote down the names he’d remembered in the night, how Bucky would find their graves and lay flowers but never, never ask forgiveness.

His hands went slack. Loki’s voice guttered and died in his ears, but shrieked in his head.

Skull kicked his knees out, catching him by the hair as he tumbled down. Clint kept the image of Bucky, sleep mussed and warm, fixed in his head. His mouth dropped open as his knees hit the floor, the shock renewing the pain throughout his frame.

“Enough of this,” Skull snarled, shaking Clint by his hair. “You will tell me where the mind stone is.”

Clint reached up, holding Skull’s wrist in his trembling hands. “Can’t,” he mumbled, blood spilling over his teeth.

“Back again, are you?” Skull said, shoving Clint up to his feet. Hand still clenched in Clint’s hair, Skull dragged him over to the table. Clint fought, weak and jerky, as Skull manhandled him onto the flat surface.

One solid punch to his cheek left him dazed, long enough for Skull to fasten Clint’s nearest limbs to the table - the left arm and leg. He couldn’t tell if tears blurred his vision, or if his vision was doubling.

An alarm shrieked, reverberating through Clint’s abused head.

Skull gave a wordless, guttural exclamation. He stomped away, out of Clint’s limited sight. The orange bars flickered back to life. Clint let his eyes slide shut as he melted against the table, sheer relief making him dizzy.

The plane dipped, nose down, just long enough for Clint’s stomach to swoop and his fingers to curl around the thick chains attached to the table before the plane evened back out. The alarm died, leaving Skull’s enraged voice to fight the ringing in Clint’s ears.

“Sir,” the speakers crackled with the force of the man’s nervous voice. “Sir, we’ve got company.”

Clint laughed. He threw his head back, cracking it against the table as his relief shifted into giddy anticipation. Tears gathered at the edges of his eyes all over again, the mess inside him leaving him breathless, his laughter pulling at his mangled lip and damaged ribs.

Skull swore over Clint’s wheezing. “The alarm?” he barked.

“We’ve been breached—” the guy’s voice cut off as another alarm swelled. Clint craned his head, watching as Skull punched clean through the wall. The noise died as swiftly as it had the first time. “Sir,” came the voice again, shouting now. “They’re on the wings!”

Another electronic wail burst over the speakers, full of static. “Whoops, sorry,” drawled a new, familiar cocky tone. “You seem to be having problems with… oh, look at that, _all_ of your seriously subpar systems. Because they’re mine now. Also, hey, alliteration, bonus points.”

“Iron Man,” Red Skull spit, somewhere behind Clint.

Pinching himself brutally inside his elbow, Clint regained control of his laughter. He lay back, gasping, heart frantic. All at once the plane dipped again, lurching crazily to the side. The swift change nearly knocked him off the table. It put too much pressure on his fucked up wrist, and left his ankle screaming. From the corner of his eyes, Clint watched Skull lose his balance.

Then, the plane see-sawed, flipping towards to other side just as roughly. Skull slid along the floor hands outstretched and scrabbling for purchase. Clint found himself clinging to the table with his fingertips, dipping his free leg to hook his toes around a table leg. Getting rolled around hurt.

The plane leveled out, long enough for Clint to relax his death grip before the nose angled down again. “What the hell are you doing,” he asked the ceiling, too exhausted to muster any real irritation.

They’d come for him. The thought looped, just underneath his awareness, over and over. He hadn’t realized how much he’d already given up, already decided they’d cut their loses until he heard Tony’s voice.

He really was an idiot.

“It seems as though our time will be cut short,” Red Skull said, reappearing beside Clint. He grinned, flashing white teeth. “I find I am also out of patience.” Fast as a snakebite, Skull’s hand darted out and fisted in Clint’s hair. He used his grip to force Clint’s head and shoulders to curl off the table, close to Skull’s face.

Clint tried to get his elbows underneath him, to take his weight and reduce the likelihood of losing chunks of hair, but Skull used his grip to shake Clint, brisk and brutal, until his arms slid out.

“Where is it,” Skull hissed, his breath ghosting over Clint’s cheek. “Tell me where you have hidden it, and I will kill you quickly.”

Clint spat in his face. Skull reared back with a disgusted shout, wiping his face with his sleeve. Before Clint could register the movement, Hydra’s favorite lunatic slammed Clint’s head back against the table. “You _dare_ ,” Skull bellowed while Clint waited for the spinning to stop.

Metal screeched, and something barreled into Skull, plowing him out of Clint’s field of vision. Hauling himself upright sucked. He gritted his teeth, ignoring how his stomach tried to escape up his throat. If he made it out of this, he was never leaving his bed, and its nest of blankets, ever again. Once propped up on his elbows, Clint’s attention snagged briefly on the sudden hole in the orange barrier before the fight reclaimed his focus.

Bucky straddled Skull, his loose hair obscuring his face as they grappled for control of an upraised knife. Skull wrenched a hand free, bashing his fist into Bucky’s shoulder and dislodging him from his perch. His left arm went through the thin, shaking lines of light, leaving the metal smoking.

Mouth open around Bucky’s name, Clint tried to leap forward. The manacles held him fast. Swallowing down his worry, Clint turned, examining the cuffs. He couldn’t help Buck like this. Even if he went for his knives, they moved too fast for Clint to be certain he wouldn’t end up getting Bucky instead. He needed to be closer.

The band was thick, covering nearly his entire wrist, with only three short loops of metal securing it to the table. The lock, though, looked fairly standard. Clint had been picking locks longer than he’d known how to read. Considering how often he found himself in this situation, he’d long since added half a dozen places in his uniform to stash basic lock picks. The pair tucked into the lining of his collar were easiest to work free with one halfway decent hand.

He tuned out the fight, dropping into his quiet place to beat back the useless surge of adrenaline, the pain and fear shaking his hands. In-two-three, out-two-three. This would be easy, and then they could take down the zombie Nazi together and go the hell home, where they had Clint’s coffee, and Buck’s hot cocoa, and piles of stupidly soft blankets and pizza. They should get a dog.

He could do this.

He could, he could absolutely do this. In-two-three, out-two-three.

Angling his cuffed hand to hold one pick steady, Clint got to work.

Harsh laughter jarred him out of his headspace, and he looked up, eyes wide. Skull stood, one hand wrapped around Bucky’s throat as Bucky’s toes scrabbled for purchase.

“Did you think you could win against me?” Skull laughed into his face. “We remade you once. We will do so again.”

Bucky’s face went white, his eyes wide. His legs curled up around Skull’s arm, even as Skull began to spit words into his face.

Clint was a liar. He couldn't do this, couldn’t watch this, couldn’t get out of the cuffs in time.

“Longing.”

“No,” Bucky managed to snap his foot into Skull’s temple, jarring his grip enough for Bucky to wrench free.

Skull only smiled. “Rusted.”

Clint’s mouth filled with the hot copper of fresh blood as he sank his teeth into the hole in his lip.

Bucky swung, wild and vicious, surging into the next blow as Skull countered him.

“Seventeen,” Skull’s voice snapped out, loud and victorious as Bucky began to falter.

At some point, Clint had stopped breathing. The room swam, out of synch with Bucky’s drunken sway.

“Daybreak.” Bucky stumbled, going to his knees.

“No,” Clint cried. “No!” He couldn’t do this. He was tied to a low budget horror film’s murder table, watching Bucky be unmade all over again. He couldn’t do anything. But he couldn’t not do something.

“Oh yes,” Skull said, nearly purring with satisfaction. “Furnace.”

“James Buchanan Barnes, _look at me_ ,” Clint shouted, trying to tumble free of the table, ignoring the way his restraints dug into his joints, the sting of broken scabs a reminder of the way the night didn’t have the decency to end. “Buck, Bucky, _please_.”

Bucky looked up, glassy eyed and blank.

Clint let words spill over his teeth, hurried, disjointed and loud. “Remember me,” he said. “Remember how you won't let me drink straight outta the coffee pot? Babe, _babe_ , I broke the freakin’ coffee pot. Don’t think Tony’ll let me have a new one.”

“Nine,” Skull bellowed. Bucky jerked on his knees, face going slack.

“ _Look at me_ ,” Clint snarled, yanking on his wrist. “Remember that time I tried to make waffles and I burned my elbow? You came home with that stupid, giant aloe plant. We keep it in the living room. You named the damn thing, you tell it it’s a good boy every time you have to take a new leaf, but you yell at me ‘cause I made you hurt it.”

The plane jolted, bouncing and knocking all of them off balance. Clint ignored it, ignored everything but the vacant slant of Bucky’s mouth.

“Benign.” Skull’s voice left Bucky shaking his head, his eyes never leaving Clint’s.

Clint’s frantic words came faster. “We made a promise,” he said, desperate. “One fucking promise, I promised you I’d come for you. You said you’d come for me. And I did, Buck, I did, I came for you, and you’re here to get me.” Clint held up his pinky, just like he did every time Buck needed a reminder that Clint had sworn a solemn oath to go all knight in shitty purple leathers.

“Clint,” Bucky said, blinking heavy eyes even as Skull shouted over him.

“Homecoming.”

“Don’t you fucking leave me, asshole,” the words tore themselves free, leaving Clint hoarse. “You don’t get to do that, you don't get to go under like this before I can tell you that I love your stupid goddamn face, Barnes. You came for me, so you better goddamn _stay with me.”_

“One.”

Bucky’s mouth opened as he sagged forward onto his hands, staring up at Clint.

“Freight car.”

Clint let himself fall, his weight held up by the cuffs around his wrist and ankle as he reached out for Bucky. It hurt, fuck it hurt, but not as much as the lost, empty set of Bucky’s face. “I need you, you freaking jackass.” His voice broke. “Okay? Happy now? I _fucking need you.”_

“Get up, _Soldat_.”

Bucky stood, his movements slow and deliberate. He stood, eyes still boring into Clint, watching as Clint struggled to haul himself back onto the table.

“Admirable attempt,” Skull mused, walking closer to Bucky. “Yet, it seems as though your confession was not enough. However,” Skull turned, snapping his gaze onto Clint. “It looks as though I now have a new way to ensure your cooperation.”

“Fuck off,” Clint said, forcing the words out of a dry, cracked throat. He couldn’t take his eyes off Bucky. The panic in his chest was rapidly fading into something colder, sitting on his heart and freezing it in its tracks. Soon, it would crack and crumble and Clint would be left with a hole wide enough to swallow the world.

His world, anyway. Again.

“Now, now. We wouldn't want to hurt our precious _soldat_ , would we?”

Bucky winked. Clint gaped at him, even as Skull shifted his attention back onto Bucky. He missed whatever Skull said next, watching as Bucky’s metal arm seemed to shoot out in slow motion, silver fingers curling around a crimson throat.

“I,” Bucky ground out, “ain’t your soldier.” He heaved, flinging Skull away, through the barrier into the wall. Skull crumpled, thin trails of smoke drifting from his body.

“Bucky?” Clint asked, swaying as he tried to force his body to sit. “Bucky, babe.”

Something sizzled along the wall, cutting a rough, man sized square of metal which clattered to the ground. Bucky was around the table, between the new threat and Clint in an instant. Iron Man’s head peeked through. “Oh, hey,” Tony said, popping his face mask up. “Got ‘em!”


	17. Chapter 17

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bucky's got some things to say, but Clint doesn't seem to know how to listen.

Clint sagged back, body too twitchy to be lax against the metal. Black dots ate away at his vision, leaving him dizzy and unmoored though he couldn’t seem to close his eyes. Everything hurt, from the sharp throbbing of his wrists, to the bruising flaring down his ribs and across his back, the distant ache of his face and the dull burn across his thigh where the bullet grazed him ages ago, all merging into an awful symphony. Even as he catalogued his laundry list of injuries, his body seemed to float farther and farther away from him. He didn’t try to fight it.

Instead, he found himself replaying the last few moments over and over: the glassy, dead-eyed way Bucky had looked at him. He’d lost him, for only the smallest moment, but Clint knew without a doubt that Buck hadn’t been home in those few seconds. Bucky had managed to shake off the programming, but Clint couldn’t make that knowledge stick. He’d _lost_. Bucky had been _gone_ , he’d come so close…

“Woah, what happened to Katniss?” Tony’s voice, because Tony’d found them. Tony would let the others know where they were, would keep Bucky safe. Tony meant Steve, and Steve would be enough to keep Bucky tethered, Steve would be able to keep Bucky from going under the Soldier’s programming.

Clint hadn’t been enough. No surprises there. But he’d tried. He’d _tried_.

“The fuck does it look like, tin man?” And there’s Bucky, sounding dangerous, brittle, but alive.

Clint couldn’t breathe past the weight crushing his chest. Faintly, he knew his body had passed trembling, settling into hard spasms that left his teeth clattering dangerously around his tongue. Bile rose in his throat. Useless, stuttering gasps brought attention back to his pissed off ribs. The part of his brain which never shut down knew he’d long since passed his threshold, that he was coming down for the first time in forever, that he was being irrational and stupid. Now wasn’t the time for this.

Fuck, he’d come _so close._

“Oookay, guard dog, how’s about I take Red Dawn over here,” metal crunched and someone groaned, “somewhere more cozy and throw away the key, while you deal with Clint’s, uh, breakdown. ‘Kay? Comm’s on, I’ll get the doc. Bye.”

Bucky’s face wavered in and out of focus, his hair tickling Clint’s nose as Clint struggled to remain conscious. The man’s mouth moved, but Clint had long since fallen into a wind tunnel, his ears, his head too full of noise to interpret anything else.

Under the panic, the mind-numbing terror and shame, the practical voice in the back of his head, the one that sounded too much like Natasha, the one Clint spent so much time ignoring, grew louder. Paranoia or not, he couldn’t shrug it off this time. His breathing stuttered all over again, as he struggled under a fresh surge of fear.   
  
What if Bucky hadn’t side-stepped Skull’s code?

Clint made it a year before anyone else figured out he wasn’t alone in his head. Bucky was smarter, and had decades under the programming to find its loopholes.

What if the rough, thorough hands pressing against his chest belonged to the Soldier? What if Bucky’d escaped the kidnapping only to end up trapped away in his own mind, all because Clint was a mess?

What if, what if, what if, Clint was drowning.

Under the fog gumming up his thoughts, Clint knew it didn’t make sense. Knew the Soldier wouldn’t have attacked Skull, wouldn’t have snarled at Tony. The programming wouldn’t care if Clint was hurt. But as Bucky leaned over him, eyes dark and intent, Clint couldn’t stop.

Bucky’s body blanketed his own, long limbs boxing Clint in against the hard surface underneath him. Clint choked, desperate for air, jerky as he reacted instinctively, trying to throw Bucky off. Hands clamped around his wrists, pain spiking through Clint’s body as Bucky dropped his weight, twining his legs around Clint’s. Held fast, Clint didn’t realize Bucky had pressed his mouth to Clint’s until he felt his teeth press against the tear in his bottom lip.

All at once, Clint stilled, yanking his head away to gulp greedy lungfuls of air. “Don’t,” he coughed, the room spinning around him. “Don’t _kiss_ people out of panic attacks, _Christ.”_ Clint forced himself to go as limp as he could, eyes closed as he struggled to control his breathing.

Bucky buried his face in Clint’s neck. One, two shaky, wet exhales later and Bucky eased himself back to the floor. “Worked, didn’t it.” There was blood, Clint’s blood, smeared across his chin again when Clint let his eyes open.

Clint tried to flip Bucky the bird, panting heavily through his mouth when the shift made his wrist press too hard against the cuff. A fresh trickle of warmth seeped out from underneath the metal clasp. Abruptly, Clint remembered that the tight feeling scattered around his body was a direct result of dry, flaking blood. He probably looked like a Carrie stand-in, more red than skin tone.

Swearing viciously in Russian, Bucky stripped off his outer layer of armoured leather and undershirt, leaving him nude from the waist up. Quick and efficient slices of a knife pulled from his boot left the undershirt in neat strips of cloth.

Brisk, businesslike fingers sought out each and every one of Clint’s injuries, Bucky’s face darkening with each new wince. “Idiot,” he mumbled, tearing at the rip in Clint’s pants to better see the wound. “Bleeding stopped,” he mumbled, more to himself than Clint. “Bruce’ll be here soon, he might have stuff to clean that with.”

Next, a bionic hand wrapped around the chain tying Clint to the table. Bucky squeezed, jerking his wrist until the link snapped. Clint curled the free arm to his chest as Bucky released his leg.

Then, Bucky scooped up a strip from his shirt and gently bound Clint’s exposed wrist. He hesitated over the second wrist, still tight to Clint’s chest. Teeth dug into his lip as he thought. “I can break it,” he offered finally, raising his eyes to Clint’s. “Gonna hurt like a mother though.”

Clint swallowed. One wobbly inhale, and he extended his arm towards Bucky. Surprisingly, Bucky shook his head, and slid his hands underneath Clint’s shoulders instead. Together, they eased Clint upright, until his legs dangled over the edge of the table. Bucky took Clint’s unbound hand and tangled it in the fabric of Bucky’s pants. Swiftly, he undid his belt and pressed it between Clint’s lips. “Bite,” he instructed, like Clint hadn’t already sunk his teeth into the leather. He positioned Clint’s knuckles against his own chest and made a face.

Two silver fingers and two flesh fingers pressed lightly at either side the cuff around Clint’s wrist. “Ready?”

Before Clint had time to nod, Bucky shoved all four fingers under the metal. Clint screamed past the belt, the tiny plates of Bucky’s inhuman digits catching against the rough edges of Clint’s tattered skin. Bucky’s arms bunched as he pulled the metal apart. Tears gathered in Clint’s tired eyes all over again. He swayed, nausea prodding at his gut.

“I’m sorry, ‘m sorry,” Bucky murmured over and over as he wrapped Clint’s wrist.

After Clint spat out the belt, he gulped in air until his body adjusted to the pain. Ignoring how his hand trembled, Clint reached out and ran unsteady fingers down Bucky’s face. “So, longshot here,” he croaked, “but you’re you, right? Not just pretending? You’re real.”

Bucky snorted, bracing his hands on either side of Clint’s hips. He dropped his head. “I’m me. All me. Very real.”

“How…?”

“After. We can get into that after.”

A moment later, Bucky pulled away, just enough to for Clint to see his face. He was wrecked, mouth pressed thin with enough force to turn the skin around his lips white. “I got things to say,” he started, low and halting. “Things you need t’hear. But not…” He pulled himself all the way back up, one hand thrown wide to indicate the mess around them. “Not now. Not here, not ‘til you’re…”

Clint couldn't stop the flinch. Bucky immediately stopped, dragging a hand down his face. Then, he leaned in, pressing a gentle kiss against Clint’s damaged mouth.

“Shut up,” Bucky murmured against his skin. “You gotta shut up and listen to me, right now, to what I’m saying and not what you _think_ I’m saying. Alright?”

Clint gave a tiny nod and Bucky pulled away, leaving Clint cold.

“We need to get your head fixed before we do anything else. Then, then we can do this, when you know it’s, that it’s real. When you don’t have to second guess everything. Me.” Bucky said the last almost too soft to hear.

Clint gave another small nod, too exhausted to even begin to unravel the knot growing inside himself. He could do that later. Alone. Process Bucky’s rescue and immediate ‘it's not me, it's you’ speech.

Bucky watched him under heavy lids for a breath. “I’m tired,” he said, leaning back in. “Tired of pretending you’re not lyin’ to my goddamn face, tired of pretending you’re okay.”

Clint looked away, pulled back, clenching his hands into weak fists. Or he could swallow it down now. Didn’t really matter, did it? This was going to suck anyway.

Gentle fingertips on his jaw pulled him back. “This ain’t me runnin’ out on you, dollface. This is the opposite of me tuckin’ tail and running.”

“What?” Clint asked. His ears felt strange. He let his fingers uncurl, too drained to keep them tucked away.

Bucky opened his mouth to respond, but jerked sharply. Scowling, he dug his ear piece free, and shoved it into his pocket. “Nosy assholes,” he muttered, before refocusing on Clint. He licked his lips and tried again.

“This is me telling you that playing along like that, not trying to—you been so good to me, you know?” Bucky’s hand traced underneath Clint’s good eye, his mouth slanting into a smile when Clint twitched. “It’s time you let me be good to you, too. This ain’t a one way street. It’s not supposed to be just me taking, y’know?” The smile fell from his face and Clint’s heart clenched inside his chest.

“Fuck, Clint. Just, just listen to me, okay? I’ll say it all again later, once you can know it’s for real, but you need to hear it now, I gotta—I can’t have you thinking whatever put that look on your face.” He blew out a breath, closing his eyes briefly. “I’ve been all in since the second I laid eyes on you, but I gotta—” Bucky swallowed, smearing the blood on his chin more as he wiped at his mouth. “I gotta know that I'm not just your project.”

“What, no,” Clint blurted, confused and hurt. _“No.”_ At least, not anymore. Not for a long time, if he was honest. Clint was selfish: no matter how he tried to frame the relationship as just something that Bucky could lean on, in the end, Clint _wanted_. He wanted Bucky’s smiles, his laughter, his competitiveness, his caretaking tendency. He wanted Bucky, just Bucky, however he could have Bucky. He couldn’t even begin to deny that, not after the last few days.

Bucky dropped to his knees, his hands light on Clint’s calves. “I’m begging you,” he rasped out, emotion making his voice thick, eyes wet as he gazed up at Clint, “this is me on my goddamn knees, please, _please_ , stop shuttin’ me out.”

“Bucky?” Clint was swaying, staring down at the raw, fractured expression on Bucky’s face. He didn’t even know if it was blood loss or the heartache in Bucky’s voice.

“Let me love you. Christ, let me _help_ ,” Bucky whispered, broken and needy. He leaned forward to brace his head against Clint’s knees. “God, Clint, just let me love you.” The hands on Clint’s legs slipped around, until Bucky’s upper body as hugging Clint’s calves, his face buried in Clint’s knees. Little tremors rocked up Bucky’s spine.

Clint blinked down at him, mouth open, mind blank. One hand rose slowly, without any input from his stalled brain. It hovered, hesitant and shaky over Bucky’s bowed head before slipping into his thick black hair. Bucky pressed closer, the sharp edges of his jaw digging a new bruise, and Clint’s fingers twitched into a fist.

Reality seemed to fracture around him, the longer Bucky sat at his feet and clutched at him with too-strong fingers. If his life ever developed the decency to go right, he’d cash in all his chips for it to be the endless moment he was in. The fairy tale ending he knew he didn’t deserve.

But life never, ever felt the urge to be kind, and Clint didn’t get to keep nice things. Phil’s disappointed face flashed across his mind. Clint tended to break nice things, no matter how hard he tried.

Didn’t he?

“You're not real,” Clint breathed, moisture gathering at the corners of his eyes. A vise seemed to be closing around his throat. “You’re in my head.”

Bucky let out a rough, muffled noise. “’M not.”

“Yeah, you are. You have to be, because the real Buck knows I’m dead weight, he knows I’m good for keeping the sheets warm and not much else. He knows…” Clint’s voice died as Bucky surged upright, his eyes wild over the sneer twisting his mouth.

“Bucky knows, _I know_ , that’s a load of horse shit. _I_ know you’re the only goddamn thing that kept me going ‘til I found my feet. _I_ know you bend over backwards to look out for me. _I_ know that the sex is good but your dumb ass smile is _better_ , _I_ know that you ain’t been all right since I met you, that you’ve been lyin’ and denying it because you think you deserve to suffer, I know that you are an amazing fucking person and if you keep talkin’ shit about you, I’m gonna give you another black eye. Don’t _bullshit me_ and try to turn this around, don’t try to tell _me_ what’s in my own head.”

Bucky pulled back, the anger visibly draining away as his shoulders slumped. “Did you mean it?”

Clint made a soft, confused noise, still reeling from Bucky’s rant. Bucky thought he was worth keeping around. Bucky thought—if Clint’s mind were a computer, it would be displaying the blue screen of death. Bucky thought he was _amazing_. Bucky was talking like he wanted to _keep_ Clint. Like Clint was a _nice thing._ He felt his mouth sag open.

“When you said those things, when Skull was trying to trigger me. Did you mean it?” Bucky stared at him, eyes hard, as though daring Clint to look away.

Like there was any other way to answer that than with the hard, hot truth burning in his throat. Nothing was more important than Bucky.

“God, yeah,” Clint croaked through a dry throat. “You are the nicest thing.” He gave a choked laugh at the confusion scrawled across Bucky’s face. “You make everything better, Buck, _everything._ There’s nothing I wouldn’t do for you.”

Bucky’s mouth crashed into his, smothering Clint’s pained exclamation. Arms curled around him, cradling him tight to Bucky’s chest. Just as fast as it started, the kiss ended, Bucky shifting to bury his face in Clint’s collarbone.

“You gonna let me love you, now?”

Clint swallowed, easing his arms around Bucky’s shoulders, nuzzling at Bucky’s ear.

“Hell, babe,” he murmured, feeling broken open and frayed. “Real or just in my head, I’d give you anything, everything. You want me? You got me, man, you got me ‘til you put me out with the trash.”

Bucky’s arms tightened, drawing another painful groan from Clint as his ribs creaked. “Promise?”

In response, Clint let his hands slip down Bucky’s arms, gently prodding them out from around him so he could hook his pinky fingers around both of Bucky’s. “Promise.”

They stayed, leaning against one another for a second that lasted years, decades, ignoring the world outside of their shared air until someone cleared their throat. Clint jerked, and swore his way through another bolt of pain lancing up and down his frame. Bucky let go, only long enough to yank his top back on, curling his smallest silver finger back around Clint’s the moment his shirt was on.

“Sorry,” Bruce said, stepping into view. Bucky shuffled to the side, giving Bruce room to step close and begin looking Clint over with gentle, steady hands. “Good Lord,” Bruce said, amusement evident in the quirk of his mouth. “Were you going for a record?”

Bucky snorted, fumbling one handed to re-thread his belt around his hips.

“From what I can see, the most pressing area seems to be your wrists.” Bruce pressed firmly on the trail scored across Clint’s thigh. Clint yelped, but Bruce gave a sharp nod. “We can patch you up back at the Tower.” He stepped back, letting Bucky slip closer to Clint without comment. “Let’s get you back to the Quinjet, and I can give you something for the pain, and clean you up a little, at least.”

Wordlessly, Bucky scooped Clint up, bridal style. Clint hiccuped a laugh into Bucky's shoulder, fisting one hand in the material over Bucky’s chest and slinging his other arm around Bucky’s neck. He’d never tell how the move made his ribs grind together until he was nearly dizzy with it. Mustering his best teasing tone, he said, “I can walk, y’know.”

Bucky only grunted. The sound relaxed the last knot, buried deep in Clint’s gut. Bucky knew, but Bucky wanted to carry him just because he _could_ , not because he needed to.

In the craziness, Clint had forgotten about the orange barrier. He felt it zing up his spine the second Bucky crossed the threshold. “Aw, crap,” Clint breathed, his heart fluttering in his chest. Laughter echoed throughout the room, higher and more shrill than Loki’s voice typically went.

Clint struggled in Bucky’s arms, ignoring his protestations until his feet were solidly on the ground. “He’s not going to stop,” Clint said, with a calm he didn’t have. He backed up, watching as Bruce caught Bucky’s arm to prevent him from following.

Ice bloomed all along his side, the laughter giving way to a furious, wordless shriek. Clint’s knees gave out as he clapped his hands over his ears, hunching into himself and squeezing his eyes closed. Hands landed on his shoulders, urgent as they skittered over his arms.

“Clint? Doll, what the hell is going on,” Bucky’s voice faded in and out underneath the screaming metal vibrating his skull. _“Bruce!”_

The noise resolved into words. “You let him get away,” Loki bellowed. “You let him go!” Five points slammed into his hip, a muted punch which quickly turned red hot. Clint’s eyes snapped open, unable to do more than watch as the thing that used to wear Loki’s face drew its clawed hand back. Faster than Clint could see, the creature buried its talons over his other hip, nails slipping into his body as though it were water. They were sharp, too sharp, fooling his body into believing it had only been hit. The pain came second, as the creature forced its talons apart, digging furrows inside Clint’s pelvis.

“How is he bleeding?” Bucky’s voice sounded far away, even as he shouted. Part of Clint wanted to soothe the thread of panic in the other man’s voice, but he couldn’t seem to react past the agony shutting down his system.

Hands pressed over the slippery curve of his hip. “I don’t know. This isn’t following any of the prior patterns.”

Clint couldn’t string together enough sounds to make Bucky’s name.

The creature leaned in close, its breath fetid and hot against Clint’s face. It was made of yellow bones, with hellfire burning its its eye sockets. “I want to go home,” it snarled, long inhuman teeth snapping too close for comfort. “You ruined it,” the snarl gave way to a bellow. Hands wrapped around his throat. They flexed, gagging him. “You _ruined_ it.”

KClint couldn’t breathe past the pressure, knew his mouth gaped open and useless, knew his arms remained limp at his sides as the thing choked the life out of him. Someone was calling him, someone was shouting. The world spun and suddenly he lay on his back, too many hands on him as the creature made violent, angry noises.

“Move,” bellowed a new voice, sure and calm in the sea of babble. “All of you, give him room.”

His head was scooped up, something smooth and heavy settling over his hair before he was eased back down. Air rushed into his abused lungs and he rolled to the side, coughing and gasping. “Th—” Clint choked, “Thor?”

Thor’s worried face swam into focus. “I told you to keep the helm on,” he said, raising his eyebrows.

Clint wheezed in his general direction, ignoring how his vision kept spiraling in and out. He clenched his teeth, trying to force his body up onto his knees. “Buck.” He had to find Bucky. Had to make sure he was okay.

“Right here, punk,” Bucky responded, slipping in close and settling Clint back against his chest. Hands settled over his heart. “You gotta breathe with me, you’re gonna pass out.” Bucky took a deep, exaggerated breath. “C’mon, breathe.”

Clint tried, body shaking hard against Bucky’s chest. “C—c—can’t.” He didn't hear anything else. He knew when he was done; he let the darkness pull him under, knowing his body would start breathing fine once his mind stopped fucking everything up.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Short chapter, mainly because it didn't seem to fit with 16 or 18 so... sorry? The plan is to have 18 up by Tuesday, the latest, so Friday wraps it all up. .....mainly because I'm a sucker and now that we're so close to the end, *not* posting it just seems cruel?? I'm making himself re-read everything again, because I'm paranoid I didn't answer something and then everyone going to get mad at meeee. Anyway! Things and stuff! Maybe even like, answers?! Soon!?   
> Also I love each and everyone one you holy shit guys you're amazing


	18. Chapter 18

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Time for some almost-answers.

Sweltering heat ran down the length of his side, pulling him up from the comfort of sleep. Clint tried to roll away, his body loose and floppy-limbed, propped up on a pile of soft pillows. Blunted metal jabbed him right in the cheek, and he jerked back with a groan.

A soft grunt came from the bundle of warmth nestled all along his flank. Once Clint convinced his eyes to open, the bundle turned out to be a person. Cocooned in blankets, Bucky was squeezed between Clint and the wall, his face half hidden in the pillow. The sight soothed something Clint hadn't realized was out of sorts, settling deep inside his chest and anchoring him. Slow and cautious, he shifted until he could run a hand through the shock of dark hair spilling over the pale yellow pillow.

White caught his eye, and stopped him short. A thin, professional bandage secured his injured wrist, the sight effectively shredding the last dredges of sleep from his mind. With a deep, steadying breath, Clint took stock of himself. His sluggishness could have something to do with the I.V. stuck into his left arm. Both wrists were wrapped, as well as his knuckles, and he could feel more bandages around his ribs and low on his stomach. He wiggled one limb at a time, casting anxious glances towards Bucky’s slack face.

The left thigh, and his right upper arm boasted more bandages. Carefully, he ran his fingers over his face, wincing at the general soreness. His nose gave a harsh twinge, but the lack of plaster meant he hadn’t broken it. Both eyebrows carried butterfly bandages. He didn’t feel any stitches, which was a relief. Minor wounds, like the marks Natasha left and the bite in his lip were left alone.

He still wore Thor’s fancy hat. It must have been what poked him in the face when he woke.

“Don’ worry,” Bucky’s sleep-thickened growl made Clint jump. “Still a pretty princess.”

“Dick,” Clint groused, his voice raw in his dry, sore throat.

Bucky huffed, before dissolving into a groan as he stretched and inched out of his blanket burrito. Clint let his gaze linger over the taut lines of Bucky’s throat in a bid to keep his mind occupied. He didn’t do well with big things, important things. Now that Bucky — whole, alive and in full possession of his own mind —was here, in bed with him, Clint found himself on the merry-go-round of absolute terror. He was self-aware enough to know that abandonment issues were the tip of his emotional sinkholes.

Assuming it hadn’t all been an elaborate hallucination, anyway.

“Quit it,” Buck rumbled, finally free of his blankets. “Whatever bullshit you’re spinning for yourself, do us all a favor, and don’t.” The easy affection from before was gone, replaced with a hard, no-nonsense tone.

Clint flinched, picking absently at the soft chocolate comforter pooled around his waist. He turned his attention to the room: all done in gentle pastels found nowhere in the Tower. Light filtered through the far window, muted by the gauzy curtain. “Where’s this?”

“Westchester.”

He blinked. And then blinked again. Puzzle pieces fell together and he said, “Wait, Professor X? That’s who Tony wanted to call? _Xavier?”_

“Dunno. But that’s where we are.”

It was getting harder to breathe. Xavier was a psychic, so having him poke around Clint’s head wasn’t exactly a terrible idea, except for how it was a _terrible goddamn idea._ He’d spent however long sharing his headspace with ghosts and aliens. Having someone else root around inside his skull when they could make him see, feel, _do_ anything they damn well wanted?

No. Nope. No way in _hell._

“Hey, hey, hey, it’s not like that,” Bucky soothed, running careful hands down Clint’s arms.

“Bucky.”

“No, I get it,” Bucky nuzzled in close, easing an arm around Clint’s waist until his body was cradled in the curve of Bucky’s. “If it’s too much, we’ll figure something else out.”

“I can’t even trust if this is real right now,” Clint blurted, hands clenched in the sheets.

Bucky froze for a beat, and then took a deep, deliberate breath. “Okay,” he started, low and with deliberate calm. “Can you trust me, though?”

Clint made a tiny, strangled noise.

“Um.” Buck cleared his throat. “If you can, then you should know that Tony tried to get Xavier to go through your head while you were out.” When Clint tried to shove himself up, Bucky pressed him back into the mound of pillows. “He’s worried about you, said it might be easier on you.”

“To have yet _another_ dude crawl into my skull for funsies without permission?” The tight ball of anxiety bled into Clint’s voice, making it snap and crackle as he fought not to shout.

“Xavier said no. Put you in here,” Bucky gave a lazy wave of his arm, “One of the few rooms warded, special, against his powers. Said it’s your head, you got final call. ‘Kay?” Intense, gray eyes pinned Clint down as easily as the hand still pressed against his chest. “Breathe. No one’s gunning for you here.”

“Yeah,” Clint muttered, relaxing despite himself.

“Yeah,” Buck echoed. He slithered out of bed and yawned. “Bruce helped their guys fix you up, by the way, so no funny business went on there either. An’ I’m the one that got you stuffed into the sweats and tee.”

It helped, letting Clint sink back into the mattress.

Bucky, in his own set of someone else’s sleep pants and shirt, ran a hand down his face. “Look,” he said, suddenly nervous. “What I said earlier…” he trailed off, furrowing his brow and sucking on his lip.

Clint tensed again, eyes digging holes into Bucky’s downturned face. Here it comes, he thought. Here’s where he laughs and says no hard feelings, or whatever.

“I meant it,” Bucky said instead, still in that hesitant, vulnerable voice. “I meant it and more but…” he looked up, pinning Clint in place with an indecipherable expression. “I ain’t saying it for the first time ‘til you know I’m real, and I’m me, and that I _mean_ it.” Rather than give Clint any time to recover, Bucky scuttled out the door.

Which… what in the hell?

He replayed Bucky’s little speech over and over, gaping at the door, waiting for the punchline. Because there had to be a punchline, otherwise — it didn’t make any sense.

Except for how it did. Little by little his brain put the parts together, Bucky’s words weaving in seamlessly with months and months of Bucky’s actions. Clint found himself grinning wide enough to hurt his face. “He likes me,” he said to himself, utterly delighted and terrified in turn.

Not that he hadn’t known that. Minus the niggling part of him, the part purring away like a cat in the sun, that meant no, no he hadn’t. Or hadn’t believed, anyway. He snorted, smile slipping as he flexed his hands in his lap, watching the bruised skin stretch over his knuckles.

The urge to deflect sat heavy behind his teeth, some half formed thought about clicking his heels… but for once, Clint didn’t have it in him to pretend. He was tired. There wasn’t any hiding how badly he wanted to believe, not anymore.

He didn't need to.

* * *

 

When the door opened next, Steve entered, laden down with a tray. Behind him came the rest: Natasha, Thor, Tony, Bruce and finally, Bucky.

Bruce immediately checked Clint over, Bucky settling down at Clint’s feet, one hand engulfing his ankle, while the rest chattered quietly to themselves as Steve handed out bowls. “Your color’s significantly improved,” Bruce murmured, checking Clint’s pupils. “How’s your pain level?”

Clint answered on autopilot, keeping most of his attention focused on the weight of Buck’s hand. He hardly noticed when Bruce removed the I.V., and wandered away. Bucky, for his part, watched Steve approach, a plain brown bowl in each hand.

“Porridge,” Steve chirped, grinning at the way Clint screwed his face up. Bucky accepted his with a grunt. “C’mon, Clint,” Steve continued, laughter wreathing his tone. “It’s good, filling, easy on the stomach.”

“It’s oat soup,” Clint responded, as petulant as he could muster while letting Steve hand it over. “No coffee?”

“Let the last of the morphine work its way out of your system, please,” Bruce chimed in.

“Great,” Clint mumbled into his bowl, scooping up a mouthful. “Gruel and water it is.” He could feel Bucky’s laughter through his foot. “I’m gonna get you back for this,” he growled, waving his spoon. It wasn’t particularly threatening, since a big glop of whatever fell back into his bowl and Bucky bent over to laugh into his knees.

To stop the helpless smile spreading across his face, Clint shoved the spoon into his mouth and made a surprised noise. It was sweet, nutty and heavy on his tongue, with hints of vanilla and honey. His stomach rumbled. He mumbled, “What’d I miss?” around another mouthful.

“Viper’s in SHIELD custody,” Natasha remarked, dragging her spoon idly through her bowl.

Clint gave a sharp nod, eyes on Bucky’s miniscule flinch. “Skull?”

When no one answered, Clint let his spoon clatter back into his half eaten porridge. He jerked his head around, gaze flickering from Thor’s scowl, Natasha’s blank face and the way the rest wouldn’t meet his eyes.

“Guys?” Clint settled on Steve, watching as his mouth thinned away to nothing.

“Skull managed to get away,” Bucky answered, in a deep, dark snarl akin to grinding rocks. The hand on Clint’s ankle spasmed and withdrew.

“He— _what—”_

“We’ll find him,” Steve cut in, implacable as only Steve could be. “And when we do, we’ll make sure he doesn’t get a third chance.”

Silence fell, Clint’s eyes darting between the determined cut of Steve’s jaw and Bucky’s sloped shoulders.

“Why,” Bruce paused and cleared his throat, shifting as all eyes snapped to him. “If you don’t mind me asking, why did he take you in the first place?”

Clint looked away, poking at the goop in his bowl. That, he wasn’t entire sure he had an answer for. Skull’s villain monologue hadn’t made much sense. He paused, blinking down at his spoon. It hadn’t made sense to _him_ , anyway. But then again, he wasn’t an Aesir.

“Thor,” Clint started, mind whirling. “What kind of magic is the Tesseract?”

“Very powerful,” Thor answered, sounding confused. “But I couldn’t—”

“Does it have a different name? On Asgard?” Clint looked up in time to watch Thor straighten. Suspicion bunched Thor’s eyebrows as he tilted his head to watch Clint in turn.

“It has many names, as all magical artifacts do, over time.”

“Okay,” Clint squinted, resisting the urge to chew on his lip again. “Like, a gem? Or stone?”

Thor leaned forward, all of his focus laser sharp on Clint’s face. “Both,” he responded, gravely. “It is the Space gem.”

Clint nodded, and found he couldn’t stop, his head bouncing up and down as his fingers twisted themselves deep into the sheets underneath him. “Yeah, yeah, okay,” he mumbled.

Bucky’s hand wrapped around his shoulders, cool, smooth fingers catching his chin. Clint kept his gaze on Thor’s widening eyes, avoiding Bucky’s concerned expression.

“Clint,” Thor rumbled, moving to stand before visibly reining himself in and remaining seated. “You owe me, us, this much.”

Clint flinched, jerking himself free of Bucky’s gentle grip. He swallowed and dropped his head, fingers curling around his bowl to keep them from trembling.

“He said,” Clint had to stop and clear his throat before trying again. “Said he’d been trapped in the Space Gem. That it’d shown him—things. How to take over the universe.”

The room remained silent, save Clint’s ragged breathing until Thor spoke again. “The Space Gem’s powers are vast indeed, it is no prophet.”

Clint sagged, eyes fluttering shut as he scrubbed at his face with a shaking hand.

“The Space Gem can move a man from place to place, can put a man in more than one place at once, open portals, but it cannot _change_ space. The Stones are limited, within their powers.”

Sucking on his lip irritated the bite and Clint winced. Looking up through his lashes, Clint blurted, “What about the— Mind Stone?”

Thor’s mouth opened to respond, but nothing came out as he stared, slack jawed, at Clint across the room.

“Yeah. Thoughts so.” Clint gave a humorless laugh, scrubbing one hand through his hair.

“Y’know, I love being clueless as much as the next guy, which is to say, I fucking hate it, so maybe someone can clue the rest of us in?” Tony remarked, irritated.

“The Mind Stone,” Thor began, “can corrupt a man’s mind more easily than the wind can shift a feather. Much like your Professor X, it gives the bearer the ability to enter a man’s —”

Natasha threw her hair over her shoulder and arched an eyebrow.

“A _person’s_ mind,” Thor corrected without missing a beat. “It grants the ability to move things with the mind alone. It is said that the Mind Stone has been used to enslave entire worlds with no more than a thought.”

“That’s…” Steve trailed off.

“Terrifying,” Bruce murmured.

“Wait,” Tony said, sharply. “Wait, mind control? So—” He surged up to his feet, brows furrowed as he paced, rubbing at his chest. All at once he stopped, and spun to jab a finger towards Thor. “Loki used the Mind Stone to control Clint? And,” he waved his hands, “All those scientists? But wait, why aren’t any of them dealing with this, if it’s an aftereffect?”

Thor sighed. “I cannot answer that. I have never been entirely certain of the extent of Loki's abilities.”

“No, no, because he, oh my god, the stupid _scepter—”_

“What’s this got to do with Skull?” Bucky interrupted.

Clint thumped his head back into the mountain of pillows. “Said he could _feel_ me ‘calling’ to him, like the stones or whatever call to each other. Said he needed to get them all together. Wanted me to tell him where I kept the Mind Stone.”

“What.” It came out so flat, Clint wasn’t even sure who’d spoken.

“That bears truth, loathe as I am to admit it,” Thor sighed. “The gems, to my knowledge, are kept scattered throughout the known realms for that reason. Together, they are unstoppable.”

“They’re rocks,” Tony said, bewildered.

“Hardly,” Thor responded, dryly.

“So, stupid question,” Natasha said over Tony’s flailing, “but do you have any weird magic rocks on you, Clint?”

Clint shook his head.

“Strong magics can leave behind a… residue,” Thor said, almost to himself. “It may be that Skull’s senses have been twisted, heightened, due to his time trapped within the Space Gem.”

“Okay,” Bucky cut in, loud enough to silence the mutterings. “So how do we figure out if he’s got some kind of…”

“Magic STD?” Clint said.

“Shut the fuck up, Barton,” Bucky snapped, unamused with Clint’s poor humor. “How do we figure out what it is, where it is, and how to neutralize it?”

As one, the group turned to Thor. Eyebrows raised, he gazed back. “Is that not why we are here? To seek help?”

“Right,” Tony said, as Clint downed a glass of water. “ Speaking of here, I’m gonna assume Robocop filled you in?”

“That you were okay with letting strange men in my skirts while I was unconscious? Yep.”

Tony flinched and looked away. The satisfaction curling inside him might have been petty, but Clint didn't give a damn. Nothing, not so much as a single part of that mess, had been okay.

“It’s not like that,” Steve cut in. “I can understand your point, but I need you to try and understand ours.” He shifted, leaning forward in his chair, clasping his hands between his knees, the picture of earnestness. “Without Thor’s helmet, you wouldn’t be in a position to give consent. We had no way of knowing if the helmet would continue to work, since that last episode wasn’t like any other we’ve seen before. Tony may have jumped the gun, but he, and the rest of us, too, are worried. There’s been a significant uptick in the depth of these episodes.”

Steve hesitated, rolling his lip over his teeth. “They’re not hallucinations, not anymore. Whatever's going on in your head, it’s physically hurting you, now. The sooner we figure out what it is, the sooner we can figure out how to stop it. No one’s trying to take away your right to choose. We’re not trying to infringe on your ability to consent or refuse. It’s your head. But we seem to be running out of time. Thor’s helmet isn’t a viable, permanent solution.”

“We, as well as the X-men, wish only to assist,” Thor remarked quietly.

“If it helps,” Bruce added with a half smile, “we can easily ask that you be monitored the entire time. Or even just have someone with you.”

Bucky’s hand tightened around Clint’s ankle.

Clint sighed, rolling his head towards Natasha. He arched his eyebrows at her. She gave him a smirk and crossed her arms in return. “You need to hear me say it, you big baby? You’ve been trying to handle this alone for a year. Has that been working?”

“No.”

“Do you want to keep living like this?”

“No.”

“Are you an idiot?”

Clint snorted. “Yeah.”

“Shall I continue?”

“Nooo,” he drawled, making a show of checking himself for injuries.

“Your relationship is very weird,” Tony said, fiddling with the glass of water in front of him.

Nat slanted a smug look his way. “Alright, fine,” Clint groaned, dropping his head back to his pillows. “Let’s see what the great Oz says.”

* * *

 

Turns out, the great and powerful Oz had loads of reservations hidden behind the curtain of British manners, instead of a magician. Swallowing back his disappointment wasn’t easy, but really, it fit in better with how Clint’s life tended to work. He touched Thor’s helmet, resigned to wearing the uncomfortable, heavy thing until further notice.

“So you can’t help,” Bucky said, aiming for flat and missing by an entire hemisphere. Clint turned his head, taking in the long lines of him as he leaned against the wall in Xavier’s office, shoulder pressed into the groove of the paneling. Everything about him screamed discomfort, since he’d crossed both his arms and his ankles and let his hair fall forward to shield half his face.

If Bucky had still been in his Winter gear, instead of worn gray sweats and a faded blue shirt with _Dodgeball Champions 2003_ stretched across his shoulders, Clint wouldn’t have been able to refrain from cracking Marilyn Manson jokes. As it was, he bit his tongue and pressed his back further into the couch cushions.

He was trying, at least, but stupid humor had hidden him for decades. Smothering the knee-jerk reaction took work. Still, progress.

“No,” Xavier replied, with a shake of his head, sounding both firm and sympathetic. “I’m saying that I do not believe my abilities will be able to roust the true, root cause of Mr. Barton’s ailment.” He held up a hand to forestall Bucky’s next comment. “I have already spoken to both Tony and Steve about this. I am a psychic, but there are limits to even my power.”

“What about Jean?” Natasha asked, leaning forward from her perch on the opposite edge of the couch

Clint blinked. He’d almost forgotten she’d followed him and Bucky in.

“I’m afraid my answer remains the same.” Xavier said on a sigh. “Jean is, indeed, far stronger than I, but the limits I speak of are not related to sheer power.” The professor settled his elbows on his armrests, steepling his fingers. “Jean and I can read minds, manipulate minds, and more. But we are not magic users.”

Xavier let the silence stretch while he examined Clint. “This began as a spell, which means I'm not confident I can eradicate it.” Faint whirring came from his chair as he maneuvered it out from behind his desk. “Now,” he began, sounding more brisk than he had before. “That does not mean I will be unable to provide some measure of assistance. The mind is still my specialty; I merely wished to ensure you aren’t harbouring any misconceptions.”

“If you are willing, I will see what I can do,” Xavier said kindly, focused entirely on Clint. “But you must remember that I can make no promises.”

If Clint was willing. With no small amount of bitterness, Clint had to acknowledge that Xavier had no intention of forcing his way into Clint’s head. Minor miracles, he thought and was promptly ashamed of himself. He dropped his eyes, digging his fingertips into his thighs. He didn’t want anything to do with this, no matter how polite Xavier proved to be.

Clint wanted to run, screaming, until he couldn’t run any more. Not that he could run anywhere far enough to stop Xavier’s ability to burrow his way into Clint’s skull. A hand, light and firm, fitted itself to his wrist.

Natasha gave a quick squeeze. When she spoke, it was in Russian, giving them the façade of privacy. Like switching languages in a room with a man who also spoke the language and another man who could _read minds_ made sense. He snorted, since, logic aside, he had actually relaxed.

“You have a choice, here. This isn’t the same. This is to try and get the last year’s poison out. To take control back.”

He nodded, gently breaking his wrist free and keeping his eyes trained on his own hands. In-two-three, out-two-three. She hadn’t told him he was safe. She knew better, and he appreciated it. They’d all taken a huge risk, to keep him with them. Wasn’t it time he took one in return, started trusting them?

Xavier waited patiently. Red pill? Or blue?

Wasn’t really a question. He couldn’t keep doing this.

Gathering his courage, Clint swallowed and looked up. “Yeah,” he said, his voice cracking. “Okay.”

“Alright then,” Xavier murmured, settling himself back in his chair. He raised his fingertips to his temple and quirked a smile. “Shall we?”

Between one blink and the next, the well-loved walls of Professor X’s office fell away. Instead, Clint found himself tucked into the corner of a ratty, disgusting green couch too familiar for comfort. He knew the walls would be full of dirty, shredded paper, that the thin gray rug stank of old booze and that the armchair was strategically positioned to hide a blood stain. So he didn’t look, couldn’t look. Wouldn’t.

Being in his Dad’s living room threw him off, left him frozen and speechless. He hunched in on himself, waiting for the drunken roar as the door bounced open. The image lasted only an instant, before dissolving into his bedroom at the Tower. “Holy Christ,” he blurted, jerking to his feet. “What—”

“My apologies,” Xavier said, his voice coming from behind Clint’s messy bed. As Clint spun to face him, Xavier continued. “I had thought it would be easier if I allowed your mind to…” he hesitated, fingers flexing on his arm rests. “Ah, if you were an active participant, rather than have me delve directly into your memories.”

“Okay? What does that have to do with that hellhole?” Clint didn't even know what his voice was doing, but it sounded awful, grating and shrill.

“It is a mental representation of traumatic experiences,” Xavier answered, thankfully sounding calm and detached enough for Clint to reign himself in. “You, understandably, weren’t looking, but the room had far too many doors. Were I to hazard a guess, I would say each door represents a specific instance, or time period.”

Clint flinched. Good to know his subconscious stored all the terrible things in his life inside the house that still gave him nightmares. “‘S a lotta doors.”

“Quite,” Xavier said, kind enough to put Clint’s teeth on edge. “But my intention was to keep this as easy for you as possible. Would you, perhaps, be willing to allow me to try?”

“I dunno what you’re trying to do,” Clint confessed, scratching at his face. He couldn’t stand still, started pacing tight aimless circles, rolling his shoulders in an effort to shake the crushing weight off his skin.

“Think of your mind like a book,” Xavier said. “I want the chapter dedicated to this past year, all of the moments where you felt your mind was not your own. I should be able to help you tell the difference between reality and what was superimposed. The book analogy unfortunately ends there, but I also hope to be able to find where, how, and what, exactly, still has influence over you, so that I can either force it out, or set our magically and scientifically minded friends on the correct path.”

Go big or go home. Clint looked around. He had to go big to _get_ home, if that made any sense.

“What do you need from me?”

“From you? Nothing. I can find what I want. The question is, what do you need to be comfortable?”

“I—” What did he need? To have this have all been a really long, shitty dream. “I need to see, I need to _know,_ what’s real and what isn’t. I need to know if it’s me, or— him. Or I’ll spend the rest of my life freaking out about it.”

Xavier gave him a thin smile. “Understandable. And easily done.”

The scene changed again, soft rustling noises filling the air. Now, the far wall resembled a movie screen, images flickering across its surface before settling. Loki loomed, grinning madly as he tapped Clint’s chest with a wickedly curved blade.

“Alright,” Xavier murmured. “Let’s see how your mind feels under the influence of that power.”

More images flashed— All of them from Clint’s time under Loki’s spell, all of them showing Clint’s glowing blue eyes and blank face: driving Loki away, breaking into a vault, prepping to shoot down the helicarrier. Each one left a sour taste in the air, something like static but lifeless, cold.

“Good, good. Now, let’s try after you regained yourself.”

The images jumped, stuttering as Natasha’s face came into focus. “Recalibration,” she said, and the sourness dropped. Now, the wall picked up speed, lingering for a moment over random memories: Clint’s blinking as Cap wrenched his not-cell door open, Tony pouting over donuts. Xavier made a frustrated noise and the images shorted out.

Fake-Loki bloomed across the wall, cleaning his nails with a tiny knife while Clint sat in the closet. Not-Phil, keeping pace as Clint determinedly didn’t run down the hall. Loki ran his hands through Clint’s hair, dipped long fingers into his coffee. Phil asked if Clint had killed him because he hadn’t loved him back. Loki sang until Clint’s head nearly burst, stood over Bucky with a knife as Bucky slept. Phil said, “you never were strong enough, were you?”

The cold grew. It sank into Clint’s bones, oily and itchy. Wrong. The urge to flee the room left him flexing his hands, in desperate want of a weapon.

“Aha,” Xavier breathed. “There it is.”

“What?” Clint couldn’t tear his eyes from where Loki’s flesh dripped from his cheekbones.

“The marker.” The images cut out, leaving Clint drained and shaking as Xavier spoke. “I can manipulate the memories of the hallucinations, if you’d like. I can’t give you what you missed during the hallucinations, but ensuring you never question their falseness… that I can do.” Xavier hesitated. “I could also remove them.”

“No,” Clint bit out. “No,” he said again, trying to modulate his tone to something less violent. “My head has enough holes.”

“Fair enough,” Xavier murmured.

The rustling noise came back, faster and louder than before as memories and impressions bloomed and faded before Clint’s eyes, too fast too see. Slowly, the colors drained from the shifting pictures, turning the images into flat, gray things.  
  
“Holy shit,” Clint breathed, wide eyed. The flickering slowed, giving Clint time to pick out faces. Set in black and white, the ghosts in his head became two dimensional, emotionless things, silent and jerky.

“Now, for the second part,” Xavier said, soft as though speaking to himself. “The source.”

The room warped, shattering and splintering under Clint’s feet. He shouted in surprise, throwing his arms wide in a pointless gesture. “What the hell?”

They hung together in an endless white space, shifting and roiling somewhere just under the surface. Splashes of color flared and spluttered, from tiny pinpricks to whole galaxies.

“Welcome to the core of your mind,” Xavier said, drawing Clint’s attention. “At its simplest. Every mind, of course, is different, for all they are the same. The lights are your emotions, your thoughts. For instance: think of Bucky Barnes for a moment.”

A pale pink blush began to edge across the expanse of white, growing deeper and darker as it stretched. Blues, greens and purples unfurled inside, like dew drops on a rose. More and more colors popped into being, turning the empty space into an ever expanding mandala.

“I have been told I am an interfering, meddling old man,” Xavier said, apropos of nothing. “But I believe you needed to see the true depth of your attachment. There is no shame in needing someone. Nor in loving someone.”

Clint gaped, one hand hovering in midair as though to stroke the unfurling, gentle swells before him.

“It’s been popping in and out of your subconscious since we began.” Xavier shrugged. “I thought it might help. But to our objective: Loki.”

At once the beautiful mosaic Bucky’s name conjured collapsed, to be replaced with an ugly bruise. Dirty, scuffed yellow muddled with streaks of blue sat in the center of a jagged black shape. It kept shifting, straining at the edges, the yellow spiraling and corralling the blue, forcing it smaller and smaller before the blue grew spikes and fought back.

Loud, jangling notes broke the silence, discordant and painful, the same melody Loki liked to hum. The yellow spun faster, the blue grew more vicious, and the black tried to inch itself wider.

Clint fell to his knees, clutching at his head as Xavier bellowed, “Enough!” He blinked, and found himself back on the couch in the Professor’s office. A headache was coming, he could tell by the tight, heavy feeling at the base of his skull. Whiplash, he thought, screwing his face up. Psychic whiplash.

Charles Xavier slumped back in his chair, rubbing at his temples.

Both Bucky and Natasha started talking, turning the words into soup in Clint’s ears. The tense feeling in his head turned into a dull pounding, keeping rhythm with his heart.

“Professor?” A redheaded woman poked her way into the room, cutting off the babbling. “I heard—”

“I’m fine. I’m sorry, I must have overreached.” He sighed, looking up to catch Clint’s eye. “Jean, could you call in the rest of the Avengers, please?” She nodded and disappeared.

“What happened?” Bucky demanded.

Natasha slid across the couch, laying tentative fingers on Clint’s leg. “You okay?”

The door opened again, spilling the rest of Clint’s people into the room, and sparing Clint the need to answer. They took up silent positions around the room, casting Clint curious, worried glances he refused to meet.

“First,” Xavier said, straightening his spine and letting his eyes trail over each person. “Mr. Barton’s mind is undamaged, from what I could see.”

Clint huffed. His mind was a mess, but knowing it wasn’t worse was probably a good thing. He jerked, startled, when Bucky left his post by the wall to settled on the arm of the couch, pressing his body close.

“Secondly, while I was able to find the source, I’m afraid I can’t do much with it.” Xavier sighed, his mouth pursing. “I can’t manipulate magic, and the… seed, if you will, is a very mixed up bit of magical energy. I should be able to get in contact with Strange or Wanda, and see if either of them can help.”

Bucky slung an arm around Clint’s shoulders, pulling him tight to his side even as Clint hunched in on himself. More people poking around in his head. He closed his eyes, willing himself to relax into Bucky’s warmth.

“Thor, I have a question for you,” continued Xavier. At Thor’s grunt, he asked, “Can music influence or alter a spell, in your experience?”

Clint could practically hear the necks swiveling as everyone shifted to look at Thor, somewhere behind him.

“I am no mage,” Thor said, slowly. “But I have seen both my mother and my brother hum or play music while working magics. It is thought to help it grow and take shape.”

“So, it is well within the realm of possibilities that a specific set of notes might… resonate? With magical intent?”

“From what I have been told, yes.”

Clint blinked, straightening. His mind might be full of cotton, but he’d figured this out ages ago. “The humming, I _knew_ the humming was doing something!”

“Wait, you’re saying it responds to specific sounds?” Tony cut in, incredulous. “Like I was trying to find earlier?” Clint twisted, taking in Tony’s scowl as he pushed himself off the wall. “Why didn’t you say anything? If I know the sounds, I can figure out a freq to disrupt it. In like, _five seconds!”_

“‘Cause I thought I was nuts?”

Tony threw his hands up and made a deep, irritated noise. “No, you’re an idiot, and you’re doing the thing when we get back to the Tower, so I can _fix_ this, and— and Thor can have his damn helmet back.”

Clint flinched.

“Tony,” Bucky cut in, flat and cold, wrapping his arm more securely around Clint. “Not helping _now.”_ As though Clint needed to be protected from Tony, of all people. He blinked, sliding his gaze between them.

Tony’s mouth snapped shut and he reeled back a step. “That’s not, I didn’t, I could have _fixed this already,_ I just —”

Clint went lax against Bucky’s side, understanding the frustration in Tony’s tone, which caused Bucky to mirror him and melt back into the couch.

Steve slid closer to Tony, wrapping a hand around his waist and tugging him into his hip. Tony kept muttering, turning his head to muffle himself with Steve’s shoulder. “Thank you,” Steve said, looking back to Xavier, ignoring how Tony fisted both hands in Steve’s shirt. “Anything else we need to know?”

Xavier folded his lips over his teeth, steepling his fingers. He locked eyes with Steve, before giving a sigh and letting his hands fall down to his lap. “Ordinarily I would restrain myself, but I feel your team has many things to learn, my friend.”

That wrung a squawk from Tony, but Steve merely inclined his head. “For starters, your team needs to work on interpersonal skills, and teamwork. Trust. I’ll have Scott and Hank give you a few ideas we use here, for students with… specific histories.”

Natasha turned a laugh into a cough, trying to hide it behind her fist. Clint couldn’t help his own snort. Specific histories. That was one way of putting it, anyway.

“Furthermore, I will compile a list of therapists, or similarly trained individuals. Teams consist of individuals, and Mr. Barton is not the only one here who would benefit from professional assistance.” Xavier stopped, making a wry face at the low murmurings. “Consider this an open offer of support, or guidance. For all of you.”

“Thank you,” Steve said, slowly. Clint didn’t bother turning around to look. “We appreciate it.”

When the Professor inclined his head with a smile, Steve ordered everyone out. Clint stayed, fixed in place by Xavier’s heavy gaze. He shook his head when Bucky tapped his arm, letting Bucky leave without him.

When they were alone, Xavier gave him a gentle smile which somehow made Clint feel small. “I won't take much more of your time, but I have one more thing to say.”

His voice was kind, solid. Clint tilted his head and arched his eyebrows.

“Have you ever heard of Kintsugi? Or Kintsukuroi?” Clint shook his head, and Xavier explained. “Golden joining. It’s a Japanese art; to fix broken pottery with a mixture containing gold, or silver. The gold does more than just rejoin the pieces, it emphasises the break, highlights the repair and keeps the history of the object alive— even as it makes the object more beautiful than it had been before.”

“I’m not a clay pot, man.” Clint seemed compelled to point out, faintly irritated. “Some pretty glue isn’t going to cut it.”

“No,” Xavier responded dryly, “but people break just as easily as clay pots.” He maneuvered his chair back behind his desk, letting Clint slink to the door. “You’ve made a life out of making do with your broken pieces, Mr. Barton, but little in the way of mending them. Some pretty glue won’t cheapen what you’ve already survived. It might help you survive other things down the road.”

Hand on the partially shut door, Clint hesitated, back to Xavier. He wet his lips and let his shoulders drop. Too much of a coward to turn back, Clint spoke over his shoulder. “Sometimes shit breaks and the pieces are too little to put back, y’know? Sometimes pieces get lost.”

“Ah,” Xavier answered immediately, full of quiet warmth that left Clint unbalanced. “But then you can always make new things from the old pieces. Time carries on, and people change. Create new pieces that fit who you are now, not who you think you should have been.”

That hit a little too close to home. Clint couldn’t help it, he peeked back at the Professor. “Thought we were talking about pottery?”

“Wasn't I?”

Wrong footed and vulnerable, Clint barely remembered to thank him for his help before slipping out of Xavier’s office. The headache had spread, leaving his left eye twitching in its socket. All he wanted was to sleep for a year, and pretend none of this was happening. Sore and aching, he moved down the hall, focusing his gaze on the floor to avoid any curious onlookers. He really didn’t want to deal with angsty teenagers. Or anyone. Ever again.

His bed better have so many blankets. And a Bucky. Bucky could definitely come too, he’d been kidnapped, he probably wanted a nap. Avoidance naps were the best naps.

Clint snickered to himself, and completely missed the legs sprawled across the end of the hall. He tripped, hissing at the pull on his thigh as he pinwheeled straight into someone’s chest.

Hands grasped his elbows, hauling him in close and balancing him effortlessly. “Gotcha,” Bucky drawled in his ear.

Rather than push away and regain his footing, Clint let himself fall forward, burrowing into Bucky’s space. Bucky let out a grunt, but otherwise made no comment. Clint breathed him in. He’d missed the subtle, male spice that was Bucky more than he cared to admit. After a beat, he jammed his face into Bucky’s throat to muffle himself as he said, “Yeah. Yeah, you do.”

“What?”

“Nothing.” Clint pulled back with a wince, touching the hot skin around his eye.

“Wanna go home now?” Bucky’s voice was soft and teasing. “‘Cause I had to rescue some poor schmuck last night. Being dashing is hard work. I want a nap.”

“Hell yes,” Clint sighed, twining his fingers through Bucky’s.

“Let’s get the hell outta here, then.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fun fact: my working title was Kintsukuroi until I realized I spent five minutes remembering how to say it every time I saw it. Because I'm a disaster.  
> 19's up Friday! Should finish answering/explaining things, and is full of schmoopy goodness.


	19. Chapter 19

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Farewells, resolutions and new promises to keep.

For the fourth time since they’d arrived, Bucky reached out and threaded his fingers through Clint’s. Like every time before, fine tremors leaked from Clint’s calloused fingers to his own. And just like before, Clint tried to hide it by gripping Bucky’s hand tight, only to force himself to relax until the shaking grew too hard to ignore.

Unlike every other time, Bucky refused to relinquish his grip on Clint when he tilted his face down and away, and gently tugged at his hand. This time, he squeezed back and resolutely tucked their hands into the wide pocket of his hoodie. He had to bite at his cheek to quell the smile threatening to spill across his mouth when Clint caved almost immediately and shuffled closer. Taking a deep breath of clean, crisp air, Bucky guided them down a new path, letting Clint have his quiet, and his support.

They’d been there, walking slowly through the cool dew painting the manicured lawn, since daybreak. Clint’s meandering— not aimless, never aimless —had them skirting the edges, ignoring the neat, curving stone paths, watching as the sun began to peek through the trees bordering the clearing. Bucky’s boots, thankfully waterproof, glistened with drops, and Clint’s sneakers had started making little squelching noises during the last half hour. He understood Clint’s need to build up to it, but it was time to start circling closer to the target.

If he was being honest, Bucky needed this, too: the time to prepare, to settle himself, to think and come to terms with the last few days. In a way, both nothing and everything had changed.

He watched Clint from the corner of his eye, took in the way his mussed hair caught the occasional ray of sun, the way his shoulders couldn’t seem to decide if they should be slumped or squared in the thin cotton sweater he kept zipping and unzipping over his chest. He took in the way Clint tried to keep his eyes on his feet, darting rapid glances at Bucky’s boots but not Bucky’s face, or turned his head away to let his gaze roam across the clearing but never settle on their objective.

Clint’s fingers pressed into his knuckles arrhythmically. Bucky began rubbing his thumb in tiny circles on Clint’s wrist, letting Clint angle their spiral just the slightest bit tighter.

It had taken only a day for Tony and the other members of his brain trust to figure out which signals— frequencies, Tony kept calling them, although Reed insisted the term wasn’t really accurate— made the mess in Clint’s head worse. That had been rough, for both of them.

Steve eventually hauled Bucky out of the lab, after Clint suffered a particularly brutal run in with the magical tumor monster that left him nearly unconscious and bleeding. Bucky had clocked Steve hard for that, even if he knew having him around wasn’t helping anyone, including himself.

Clint hated showing anything he thought of as a weakness around Bucky, like he’d stop wanting Clint around if he proved to be too human. It was on Bucky’s mental list of things to address once this was over. For now, he could only grit his teeth and try to prove Clint wrong. He didn't need Clint to be strong, he needed Clint to be real.

As though Clint heard him, he leaned over and bumped shoulders with Bucky. When Bucky canted his head towards him, Clint jerked his chin to the right. He stopped, using his grip on Bucky’s hand to press down until Bucky stilled and looked.

Out of the far patch of woods, a pair of does emerged, eyeing them with suspicion. After a beat, one of them moved, steps cautious and delicate, further into the open. It seemed to be a cue, as three half grown fawns tumbled out into the sun next, all ridiculous, eager limbs. One tripped, sprawling in the grass and wriggling wildly before regaining its feet. Bucky felt Clint’s soft huff of laughter as he pressed close. Loathe to disrupt the silence, Bucky only angled his head to arch his eyebrows at Clint and glanced meaningfully at the clumsy deer.

Clint stuck his tongue out and pulled them back into motion. The deer paid them no mind. It warmed Bucky, irrationally, that the does didn’t treat them as threats. He snuck a peek at Clint’s face and knew, from the slight curve of his lip, that Clint felt it too.

The smile fell away when Clint rolled his left wrist before stuffing his free hand into his own pocket. Bucky sighed. Once Tony, Reed and Bruce had figured out how to make everything more awful, it had, thankfully, only taken a handful of hours to find a way to make it stop.

Which meant Thor got his damn hat back, and Clint wore a clunky bracelet-cuff thing instead. He hadn’t bothered to find out the specifics, just that it emitted some kind of energy or waves which disrupted the stuff living in Clint's skull. Reed had wanted to make it a collar, wanted it close to the head, but Bruce and Clint squashed that right off.

Which mean Bucky hadn’t needed to squash Reed, no matter how much he wanted to.

But in another handful of hours, Clint wouldn’t even need that. Assuming everything went according to plan, anyway. Bucky rolled his eyes at himself. No need to go borrowing trouble; it liked him too much to stay way long, as his Mama used to say.

Clint shifted again, letting them cut much closer to their goal. Bucky didn’t resist the need to drop a quick kiss onto his temple. He savored the impish smile it brought out. He’d promised himself he wouldn’t say anything again until Clint didn’t need to ask him if he was real, but that didn’t mean he could ignore the way his heart swelled.

Soon. He’d be able to let the sappy crap he’d been choking on for almost a year pour off his damn tongue. Soon, he’d get to rub Clint’s stubborn, stupid face in it. Aggressively woo the dumbass all over again, if he had to. Bucky caught his lip between his teeth. Might do that anyway, he thought. Clint’d probably pout for half a second and then eat it up.

The sad lack of love in his life was pretty clear, but it was a slack Buck could happily take up.

True to his word, Professor X tracked down Dr. Strange for them— and the fella definitely lived up to his name. Bucky kinda wanted to kick the guy every time he opened his mouth, and Clint wasn’t shy about his dislike, either. Although that might be more because Strange was just the latest to poke in Clint’s head like it was a theme park.

He’d shown up the day before, talking  _ at _ them like the condescending ass he apparently was, and made Bucky stand across the room from a twitchy, unhappy Clint. Strange had mumbled and made things glow, fiddled with rocks and packets of dust in progressively weirder combinations way too close to Clint for Bucky’s comfort. Strange had made a surprised, confused noise and pressed a rough stone on Clint, watched in fascination as the stone flickered yellow and blue-green, the colors getting stronger and faster the longer Clint held it. He’d made some snide, incomprehensible remark about haste, fools, and mud before announcing he’d be back late the next day and vanishing in a dramatic swirl of his fancy cloak.

Yeah. Bucky definitely wanted to kick the guy.

Clint’s fingers spasmed around Bucky’s hand, the blunt pressure of nails drawing him back to the present. Swallowing hard, Bucky squeezed back, hesitating briefly before settling his head against Clint’s. He found he couldn't look down. Irrationally, he wanted to spirit Clint away, even knowing how badly Clint needed this.

Maybe because of how badly Clint needed this.

Bucky had never been good at sharing. Ashamed of his reaction, he breathed, “Should I take a walk?” into Clint’s hair.

“No,” Clint croaked after a beat that lasted forever. “No, you’re good.” Clint tugged his hand free, leaving Bucky suddenly adrift and off kilter. Then, Clint dropped gracelessly to his knees, hunching in on himself as Buck eased back a step, linking his hands behind his back so he didn’t reach out and reclaim Clint.

They both needed this, and Bucky knew it.

Throat bobbing on a swallow, Clint rolled his shoulders back and lifted his head, the strength and determination enough to catch Bucky’s breath.

“Hey, Phil,” he said, low and halting. “Long time no see.”

Bucky slid back another step, clenching his jaw until it ached. The flayed brokenness of Clint’s voice punched straight through Bucky’s gut and for the first time Bucky realized he’d been so, so stupid. All this time, Bucky’s reaction had been skewed towards jealousy and inadequacy: not being enough, not being the man Clint really wanted, being out done by a literal ghost every day.

But Bucky should have known better. No, he  _ did _ know better, he knew how deeply Clint devoted himself to people he claimed as his own. No wonder Natasha looked so disappointed in him, before. Clint had been taking care of Bucky, looking out for him, pretty much since he set eyes on Bucky. Long before they’d fallen into a friendship. For him to have lost a man he’d been in love with for years?

Clint’s hands clenched on his thighs, knuckles turning white as he dug his nails into the denim. He slumped over, sucking in noisy breaths as he tried and failed to fight off his tears.

Bucky was on his knees, wrapping himself around Clint’s back before the first tear soaked into Clint’s jeans. Rocking Clint in tiny motions, Bucky hummed a half remembered melody, one that always made him think of his mother and soft, warm hugs. Forehead pressed into the knob of Clint’s spine, Bucky cursed himself and his selfishness.

He’d been so worried about being a stand in, he’d never given thought to what it meant for  _ Clint _ , not really. And here he was, kneeling on the man’s grave, as Clint’s chest stuttered over great, heaving sobs. He’d stood there, just now, over the bones of the last man Clint had loved and wondered if this would get Coulson’s ghost out, if it would take the threesome down to two.

There were days he wondered if he’d lost something important, between the programming and his time in the ice.

“Hey, Phil,” Clint said again, wiping his face on his sleeve and leaning back into Bucky’s chest. Bucky shifted, settling on his butt to pull Clint close. “So, um.” Clint cleared his throat, his fingers wrapping themselves in Bucky’s sleeve. “I brought someone I think you’d like?”

Hot shame bubbled in Bucky’s throat, shame and adoration for the resilient man in front of him.

“So, uh, Bucky Barnes is alive.” Clint gave a half-assed jazz hand. “Wild, right? Bet you’d’ve lost your mind all over again, man. Cap’s biffle.” His voice wobbled. “And, he’s— y’know, I don’t think we ever actually like, finalized anything?” Clint slanted a weak smirk at Bucky before facing the headstone. “But, um. He’s my… guy. And I hope that’s. I dunno. Okay? ‘Cause he’s amazing, y’know? And he makes me eat veggies, so. You can stop glaring at me over that, too.”

Bucky hid his face in the curve of Clint’s shoulder, letting the fabric soak up his own tears as he clutched Clint.

“Been talking to Nat, too,” Clint continued, softer now, but stronger. One hand moved to Bucky’s, his thumb rubbing in the hair at Bucky’s wrist. “She’s mad at me. It’s— it’s been a long fuckin’ year. I kept some shit to myself, shit I shouldn’t have. But she said some things.” He gave a hoarse laugh. “Hinted at some things, ‘cause it’s Nat. Said I was being a coward by not saying goodbye. That we made our choices, and you had your reasons. That I was important,” And Clint’s voice broke again, brittle like glass as he sucked in clean air. “Did you really tell Fury you were seeing a damn cello player?” Clint gave a tiny, gasping giggle. “‘Cause of my bow?” He dissolved into laughter, too wild to be humor.

Gentle pokes helped Bucky to relinquish his grip on Clint. He watched as Clint scooted forward, tracing Phil’s name in the dark, glittering surface. “I miss you,” he confessed, letting his head drop forward to rest on the stone. “Even when you’re dead, you pull my ass outta the fire. And I owe you a lot of things. Apologies. Thanks. A fuckton of your fancy beer and food from that Korean place you like. Liked. You were all I had for— but I guess, not really. But you did so much for me.”

Buck pressed the heels of his palms into his eyes, hoping the pressure would stave off the burning in his throat. When he opened them, Clint had shuffled to the side, propping himself up on Phil’s stone as he watched Bucky with a strange almost-smile.

“But I got Buck now, too,” Clint mumbled. “And Nat, which she decided to remind me of with a rabbit punch to the kidney. And the team, I guess. So, yeah, I’m not alone, now.” He let his eyes flutter shut, breaking Bucky’s wide-eyed stare.

“So… so, yeah. Nat’s right. Like always. I gotta— I have to let you go. For real, this time.” Clint swallowed, and dragged his lower lip between his teeth until the flesh went white. His fingers shook as they traced Phil’s name. With an unsteady inhale, Clint let his eyes open, resolve filling his exhausted face.

“I miss you,” he repeated, gazing off into space. “Figure it'll be a long time before I don’t. But I don’t think you’d hold it against me if I tried to be happy, for once.” Hand pressed flat against the stone, Clint said, “Hope you find that beach you were always talking about. Bye, Phil.”

Clint levered himself to his feet and dusted himself off. Bucky felt his face grow slack, his lips parting as he gazed up at the man in front of him. His eyes were puffy and bloodshot, his nose was red, and dirt was smudged across one cheekbone, but he was the most beautiful thing Buck had ever laid eyes on.

When Clint offered a hand, Bucky shook his head, and ignored the way Clint quirked an eyebrow. He shuffled himself until he sat in a squat, his own palm pressed flat against Phil’s name. The stone seemed warm under his hand, the cut edges smooth and gentle against his skin.

“What’re you… ”

“I’m sorry,” Bucky rasped past the knot in his throat. “I’ll do better. I’ll take care of him. I’ll try to keep him happy. Promise.”

He looked up, catching the flabbergasted expression as it flashed across Clint’s face before he settled on a shy, bemused smile. It had Bucky’s heart skipping wildly even as he let Clint haul him up.

“Sounds like a rough promise,” Clint murmured, searching Bucky’s face.

Bucky didn't even know what his face was doing anymore. Rather than try to find more words, he held out his pinky. Clint slid his own along it without hesitation, locking their hands together. After a moment, Bucky twisted his little finger free, so he could tangle their hands together properly and tug Clint away from the grave.

“My ass is soaked,” Clint grumbled, making a disgruntled face when Bucky huffed at him. “C’mon, I want to change before my dick gets so cold it hides.” He bumped Bucky’s shoulder with his own, urging him to move faster along the path back to their car.

Bucky snorted, shaking his head as he followed.

* * *

 

Doctor Stephen Strange swept his gaze around the room, his face twisted in thought. Bucky bit his lip to keep his irritated comments to himself. For some reason, Strange had asked that the living room on the common floor be cleared, which meant Bucky and Steve had been conscripted into service.

Between the two of them, nothing was really heavy, but that didn’t make clearing a room the size of a house any faster or less awkward. They’d ended up lining the walls with couches, tables and chairs, leaving the center of the room bare.

“That should do,” Strange said, with a decisive nod of his head. He turned and pulled another paper bag from his satchel, carefully adding a measure of its contents to the bowl in front of him before he went back to crushing it into a fine powder.

Tony made an annoyed sound, but quieted when Steve glared. Rather than listen to another round of Tony trying to pitch for the ritual to be done in a lab, Bucky stuck his head into the kitchen. There, he found Clint making a horrified face, as Bruce sipped from his cup.

Bucky relaxed against the doorway, soaking in the companionable atmosphere. He wasn’t sure if it was due to Thor and Bruce’s influence or Clint’s determination to ignore his worries. “It can’t be that bad,” Bruce said over the rim of his mug.

Clint flung his hands out as though words failed him while Thor gave into low, rolling chuckles. “Oh, I’m sure it tastes vile,” he said. “It seems to be a failing in the magical arts— the inability to create a tincture which doesn’t make you wish to chop off your own tongue.” He tipped back his coffee, eyes laughing as Clint made increasingly ridiculous gestures. “I thought it was meant as a punishment as a child, until I saw my Father attempt to drink one of my Mother’s mixtures.”

“Yeah?” Bruce asked, watching as Clint began licking his own sleeve, presumably to get the taste off. His fella was an idiot, but at least he wasn’t panicking. “What happened?”

“He spewed it clear across the hall,” Thor replied, droll. “My Mother merely produced a second cup and held his nose until he swallowed, scolding him all the while.”

Bruce gave into his laughter while Clint threw his hands up in despair. “How’m I supposed to down this crap when the Viking god-king can’t handle it?”

“Open your damn throat,” Bucky said, letting the words roll off his tongue like honey, thick and slow. “And swallow.”

For a beat, there was silence as Clint slewed around to gape at him, utterly betrayed. Then, as he jabbed a finger in Bucky’s direction, Bruce put his head down to cackle delightedly into the table while Thor threw his head back and all but roared with laughter. Clint couldn’t even come up with a retort, opening and closing his mouth like a fish while Bucky let a grin curl his lips.

“I’d offer t’ help you practice, but we’re runnin’ short on time,” he teased, letting his native accent uncurl. Stupid and juvenile it might be, but stupid and juvenile worked.

“You trying to say I can’t swallow, Barnes?” Clint snatched the plain white cup from the table and dumped its contents into his mouth. Straight away his cheeks bulged and he clapped a hand to his mouth as he curled into himself. His throat bobbed, eyes immediately watering. “Holy shit, that is nasty,” Clint groaned trying to scrape the taste off his tongue with his hands. “Why did you let me do that, oh my god. So gross.”

“And yet you’re alive, so quit whining,” Natasha said, from behind Bucky. Sheer force of will kept him from jumping, but from the look she leveled him with, she knew it. “Strange is ready for you, so get your ass in there and let’s get this done.”

That effectively killed the lingering amusement in the air. Clint rolled his shoulders and stood. Bucky stepped close and clapped a hand over the nape of his neck, pressing their foreheads together. “You got this,” he murmured. “I believe in you.”

“You made a shitty dick joke,” Clint muttered back, sneaking a kiss.

“Made you smile.”

“Yeah. Yeah, it did.”

Natasha cleared her throat. Clint broke free, head ducked as he took an unsteady breath. Resolve stiffened his spine. He rolled his shoulders, cracked his knuckles and marched from the room, Bucky and the rest trailing behind him.

“Did you drink it?” Strange asked, dark eyes keen on Clint. “ _ All _ of it?” At Clint’s nod, he beckoned him closer. “Good. The tea will help the magic spread. Now, shirt off. The rest of you, along the walls, if you please. You can observe,” and here he stopped, and fixed Tony with a pointed look. “And record, as I will do my best to explain what I’m doing, but as this is  _ magic _ , do not interfere.” He swept his gaze around the room, landing briefly on Bucky. “Stay outside the lines at all times. Both for your safety and ours.” He flicked his fingers at the chalk circle that covered nearly the entire room.

As Bucky and the rest of the team found perches on the repositioned furniture, Strange pulled out a paintbrush and scooped up the wooden bowl he’d been mixing things in. With careful strokes, Strange used the thick black substance he’d made to paint symbols on Clint’s skin.  His voice fell into a rhythm Buck was used to from grade school, but Bucky didn’t even think twice about tuning most of it out. The specifics, something about Chakras, wasn’t important. Instead, he watched Clint’s face.

Clint’s nervousness was obvious in the tightness around his eyes and the way he kept licking his lips. The inability to soothe him became a physical ache in Bucky’s hands. He fisted them and shoved them under his arms.

Strange put the bowl and brush down and examined his work. He put his fingertips to each symbol and said something that sounded more like noise than a word, but each time the symbol flashed gold and seemed to sink further into Clint’s skin.

Next, Strange guided Clint to the center of the circle and urged him to sit. “Now,” he said, retrieving his chalk. “From what I can tell, the magical remains in your head have twisted and mutated in a way they were not intended to do.” Leaving the cloak with his other things on the table, Strange began drawing smaller circles and lines connecting them to both the border circle and the center one Clint sat in.

Bucky didn’t like how the drawings seemed to isolate Clint. He ground his teeth together, and shifted, shoving his hands under his thighs so he didn’t reach out.

“You were under the influence of the Mind Stone at some point,” Strange continued, adding new lines to bisect the original ones. “That’s most likely what let Loki control your mind, for self-explanatory reasons. However, it wasn’t done correctly.” Strange moved on to drawing swirls inside the circles, scribbling what looked like runes along the lines.

“If I had to guess, I would say that Loki himself was also under the influence of some type of magic, and that his natural abilities were attempting to fight it off when he bewitched you. It muddled the original intent for the spell, and then the high emotions after the incident left you in an excessively vulnerable state.”

Thor shifted along the wall, drawing Bucky’s attention for a moment. Worry and something else pinched his broad face, before he noticed Bucky and schooled his expression, though he couldn’t hide the swallow as he looked away.

Strange pushed himself to his feet, and ran a critical eye over his handiwork. Bucky thought it looked like a toddler had decided to keep Clint captive, but Strange nodded and turned back to his supplies. “Alternatively, since it was asked why no one else suffered the same response: the others weren’t in direct contact with Loki often, whereas Clint was his confidant, so it could have been overexposure to Loki or the Mind Stone itself. Since there are two distinct magical signatures, I believe the former option makes more sense.”

Pulling out three silver bowls, Strange continued, “Your mental state does seem to have a lot to do with how the magic shaped itself.” The bowls were settled into even smaller chalk circles, equidistant around the main circle.

“It’s my fault?” Clint asked, faintly.

Bucky must have given away how poorly he reacted to that, because Natasha’s nails suddenly bit into his arm, pinning him in place.

“No,” Strange responded, setting the contents of the silver bowls on fire with a snap of his fingers. Smoke rose in thin tendrils, never breaching the outermost circle. “Chance. That’s all it was. Loki’s poor control seems to have left a magical imprint of himself behind, which the gem latched onto and then exploited. Same thing happened for your own mental state: the ghosts, if you will, of the magic were able to sink roots into your emotional distress and use that to nurture themselves. All of it accidental.”

Bucky forced himself to relax, ignoring Natasha’s warning squeeze as her hand fell away. Clint’s face was screwed up as he mouthed something to himself, like he was working through Strange’s theory.

Strange pulled three small paper bags from his satchel and settled them at his feet as he took his position before Clint. “Coulson evolved into your mind’s defense, again due to your emotional ties. Don’t take on blame that isn’t meant for you. That’s how you wound up here to begin with.”

He paused and gave Clint a small smile. “Magic itself isn't cruel. The ‘ghosts’, or impressions, may have become twisted, violent things, but it sounds like it started as just a desire to go home, to be free. It took the most prominent shape in your mind… and Loki became a self fulfilling prophecy.”

Bucky watched confusion etch itself deep into Clint’s face. He missed whatever Strange did next, but suddenly the chalk lines blazed with light and Clint’s face went slack. Strange’s voice dipped lower, as he began to chant, again in that nonsense language. He reached down and took a handful from the first bag, blowing it into Clint’s face. The chant restarted, and then he took a handful from the second bag and blew it across his palms towards Clint. And again for the third bag.

The room seemed to shift, as something buzzed in Bucky’s ears and the hair on his neck and arms stood tall. Tony was nearly vibrating, held in place by Steve’s hands braced on his shoulders. Bruce and Thor seemed unaffected, but Natasha’s mouth pursed.

Strange shouted something, Bucky saw his mouth move, heard the way his bellow echoed off the endless panes of glass, but he’d never be able to recall exactly what the sound was.

The air seemed to turn to stone, pressing on Bucky’s chest as Strange yanked a thin knife from his boot and slashed at his palm. He flung the blood towards Clint, tiny rubies which seemed to freeze as they touched Clint’s skin.

Everything came back to Bucky in a lurch, something popping inside his body. He was vaguely aware of Steve sitting heavily beside a rigid Tony, knew that Natasha shot to her feet and Bruce's eyes glowed green before he screwed them shut. Thor only seemed to sigh.

All of Bucky’s focus centered on the circle where Clint’s body seemed to be slowly crumpling into a heap.

Strange flung his hands out, snarling harshly before slapping his hands together. Wind billowed from his hands, scattering bits of chalk and smoke around Clint’s body.

The black symbols gleamed a bright gold against his skin for a second time, before slowly disappearing.

Clint’s entire body bowed back, hands scrabbling at the floor. Bucky hit the ground on all fours before Clint could do more than wheeze. Someone grabbed at his ankle, keeping him from crossing the white line sloping across the ground. As Clint’s body trembled and shook, Bucky yanked free and skittered along the line until he could see Clint’s face.

“Clint,” he cried, pounding one hand against the floor as though that would get his attention. “Clint, look at me, you gotta breathe!”

Strange stepped into Bucky’s line of sight, just outside Clint’s circle. “It’s more stubborn than I thought,” he said over Bucky’s continued chant of Clint’s name. “For a stray bit of energy with no real master, this is ridiculous.” The man dropped to his knees beside Clint’s taut, writhing form.

Bucky’s position gave him a clear view as Strange dug glassy pink slivers from yet another pouch. The magic-user hesitated, half crouched over Clint as he caught Bucky’s eye.

“I have to do this,” he said, “It’ll look worse than it is. Remember, you  _ must not cross the line.” _

Before Bucky could even demand an explanation to that terrifying remark, Strange forced Clint’s mouth open and shoved the glittering fistful in. The reactions were immediate and violent.

Strange slammed Clint’s jaw closed, body dropping down over Clint’s hips, palm forcing Clint’s head as far back as it would go as the other closed around his biceps.

Shouts rang out around the room, melting into an incoherent roar. Bucky’s metal fingers dug into the wood beneath him, hard enough for it to crack and splinter. Across the circle, Thor held a struggling, furiously shouting Steve aloft with both arms. Bruce and Natasha’s voices softened, but didn’t stop demanding explanations over Tony’s strident, horrified tones.

And Clint began to seize. Endless convulsions nearly unseated Strange as Clint undulated, going stiff or limp without provocation. His eyes rolled back in his head, the tendons in his throat and arm turning to steel ropes. Sweat broke out over Clint’s form, the blush covering his body glowing faintly, as the symbols lit up gold. Reddish spittle escaped his mouth.

He wasn’t breathing.

He wasn’t breathing and all Bucky could think was  _ at least Strange’s keeping his head in place so it’s not slamming down like his feet _ .

He wasn’t  _ breathing. _

Except, then he was — huge, shuddering attempts to suck in air through his clenched teeth, that devolved into choking on the pink foam still leaking from his mouth. Bucky gulped down his own mouthfuls, lightheaded from unconsciously holding his lungs as still as Clint’s.

Strange tumbled free, releasing his grip on Clint’s chin and hauling him onto his side. The coughing subsided as Clint slapped a hand onto the floor, his body shivering.

Helpless and near mindless, Bucky began patting at the floor, begging for Clint to turn and look. “C’mon, doll, I just need to know you’re in there, okay, just, please.”

With a groan, Clint rolled onto his stomach and Bucky pressed his head to the floor, breathing heavily as he tried to get his heart rate under control. When he looked back up, Clint was staring at him with wide, amber eyes.

Bucky’s mouth dropped open. “What the hell?”

“Hi,” Clint said, coughing, rubbing at the stuff on his face. His veins seemed to shine yellow where they were closest to his skin—  along the backs of his hands, up his neck, inside his wrists and elbows.

“He’s fine now. That’ll fade,” Strange said, gathering up his supplies. “It’s just an after effect of the residue as it breaks down and dissipates from the body.”

“What?” Clint sat up, worried as he glanced from Bucky to Strange.

“You alright, gorgeous?” Bucky asked. Clint nodded, still lost. “Good, ‘cause you look like you went to a hell of a party.”

Clint blinked and looked down at himself. “Huh,” he said, poking at his skin. “I’m a rave.”

“Your eyes are freaky and yellow,” Tony pointed out. At some point, Steve had escaped Thor and wrapped himself around Tony, instead.

“‘s cool,” Clint responded, breaking off to yawn. “I’mma kitty.”

“Is the exhaustion normal?” Bruce cut in.

“Very,” Strange replied, dumping the ashes from the bowls into a cloth bag. “He’ll sleep for several hours and wake up fine.”

“Can I…” Bucky started, hesitating with his hand near the chalk line.

“Oh, one second,” Strange swiped a hand through the chalk, breaking the circle. The soft light died and Strange nodded.

Bucky scuttled across the floor until he could pull Clint into his lap and run shaking fingers through his hair. “You’re okay,” he breathed, pressing his face into Clint’s neck.

“Tired,” Clint mumbled back, nuzzling closer.

“Right, how about you take him up to bed, Buck,” Steve’s voice jerked Bucky back. It was harsh, like the look he was directions towards Strange. “And we’ll help Dr. Strange... clean up and get the room put back together.”

Bucky had Clint cradled against his chest and was halfway across the room before Steve finished speaking. He paused, and tossed a “Thanks, Doc,” over his shoulder before hustling Clint to the elevator.

He was asleep long before Bucky manhandled him into the sheets. It hurt to look at him, worn and bruised against the bed, curling himself into a ball. Sighing, Bucky got them both down to their boxers and carefully wiped Clint down with a warm, wet cloth. Then, he inched onto the mattress, pausing to ensure Clint’s soft noises were still sleep noises, and curled around him. With luck, the rest would at least take care of the circles under his eyes.

* * *

 

A steady, firm pressure on his spine teased Bucky out of sleep. Strong fingers reached the small of his back and reversed, dragging themselves back up to his hairline. A body lay next to his, warm and soft where it pressed along his side, a leg thrown carelessly over his calves. Bucky drifted for a while, sprawled on his stomach, hands shoved up under his pillow.

He hadn’t felt this grounded, this whole, in days. Weeks, maybe. Clint had been subtly pulling back from him for too long. He shifted his weight, inching his body closer, until he could feel the jut of Clint’s hips against him.

Clint’s hand slid across his back, nestling under Bucky’s flesh arm as he pressed a tentative kiss to the knob at the top of his spine. Bucky hummed, pressing up into the touch. It seemed to be the signal Clint was looking for, as he let himself collapse carefully across Bucky’s back.

“Hi,” he mumbled, face pressed into Bucky’s shoulder.

Moving his face from where it was half buried in his pillow felt like too much effort. He grunted instead.

Teeth nipped lightly at his ear. Bucky jerked his head away and squealed. They froze for a moment, Bucky’s eyes going wide.

“Did you just—”

“Nope,” Bucky twisted underneath him, just enough to make him cling, instead of throwing him off.  

“You did,” Clint said, breathless and delighted. “You so totally did.” He pressed himself tightly to Bucky’s back, hands skimming up his arms to circle his wrists as he resettled his legs between Bucky’s thighs. “No take backs.”

Bucky’s only response was to go limp. Clint was a deliciously solid weight on top of him, pinning him to the mattress.

Being so close meant Bucky felt it when Clint stilled, but his heart kicked into a higher gear, galloping against Bucky’s back.

He tried to turn his head, bring his face closer to Clint’s, but stopped when Clint pushed down on his wrists. Instead, he closed his eyes, focusing his remaining senses on the body above him.

“So,” Clint started, minty fresh breath tickling over Bucky’s cheek as he hesitated. It made him wonder how long Clint had let him sleep.

Bucky could feel him gathering his resolve before he spoke again, hands flexing around Bucky’s wrists. “Before. You said. You said you wouldn’t… say it. Until I knew you were you.”

He didn’t reply. The way Clint kept shifting his toes meant he wasn’t done.

“I know I’ve been… kinda crappy to be around,” he continued. “I get it if you don’t. Um. I’m not, I don’t.” Clint stopped and growled into Bucky’s skin. “I’m no good at this shit, okay. But. Now that I’m not carrying the magical STD version of an emo kid...” He buried his face just beneath Bucky’s ear, his heart beating a rapid tattoo against Bucky’s spine as he blurted, “I, I wanted to let you know that I meant it. All of it.”

The quiet confession broke some final string inside Bucky, the last holdout in favor of Clint not being as invested as he was. He let out a shaky breath, and twisted his wrists free, so he could slip his fingers between Clint’s and hold on.

“You’re amazing,” Clint continued, awe leaking into his voice. “You keep getting up and trying to do right by yourself and I just…” He huffed a wet laughed against Bucky’s skin. “You really are the nicest thing, okay?”

“Am I allowed to talk now?”

“Yeah. But, stay like this? Please?”

Nodding into the pillow irritated his scruffy cheeks, so Bucky used their hands to shove the thing away and dropped his face straight onto the mattress. “You feelin’ better? Any doubts about reality? Me?”

“No,” Clint said, sounding small. “I’m more clear headed than I have been in forever. My head’s all… feels like the first shower after a week in the mud, if that makes sense.”

“Good. Can I look at you?”

Short hairs tickled at his neck as Clint shook his head.

“Gonna need you to listen real close, then, okay? ‘Cause this is important.”

A nod, and Clint squeezed his pinkies around Bucky’s.

Glad he’d shoved the pillow free, Bucky spoke, keeping his voice deliberately calm and even. “You’re important to me. You’ve been important to me the whole time. I sleep better with you around. You helped me learn how to be me again.” He paused, not really sure what he needed to say, or how to say it. He just needed Clint to  _ know _ .

“I meant every damn thing I said. You’re my best friend, okay, but you’re more’n that, too. Not being able to help you has been a special level of hell. I need you to— this’s got to be a partnership. I help you, you help me.”

Frustrated, Bucky clenched his hands, folding Clint’s fingers tighter in his grip. “Christ, listen—  I fuckin’ love you. I love you a stupid amount. You make me stupid.”

Clint’s body froze on top of him, his breathing hitching against Bucky’s skin. “Yeah?” he asked, his voice wavering and so, so hopeful.

“Yeah, you fuckin’ dunce.” Bucky bit back, pressing his toes down into the sheets so he didn’t flip them both over and kiss the uncertainty right out of Clint’s mouth. He licked his lips and grimaced when he caught the sheet with his tongue.

“Don’t you ever shut me out like that again, Barton. I will kill you my goddamn self.”

“Dunno how,” Clint said, quietly.

“You trust me?”

“...Yeah.”

“Then we’ll figure it out. Right?”

Clint huffed a little laugh, pulling his hands free to wrap them around Bucky’s chest. “Hey, Buck?”

“Mmm.”

“I love you too. Just so you know. Like. A lot? ‘S kinda fuckin’ terrifying, actually.”

Now Bucky couldn’t help himself. He pressed up, until Clint’s weight lifted and he could roll onto his back. Whatever words he’d had fizzled and died when Clint eased himself back onto his knees. Worry bunched Clint’s brows together, and he chewed on his lip, looking away. The sheets bunched under Clint’s twitching hands, but his chin jerked up in a challenge when Bucky twisted to catch his eye.

Clint gave him a tiny, wobbly smile. It shattered what was left of Bucky’s brain.

He surged up, hauled Clint into his lap and cut off his squeak with a searing kiss. Clint’s arms wound around his neck, his knees spreading to settle himself more solidly across Bucky’s thighs. Bucky buried a fist in his hair, yanking his head back to kiss at the ridges down Clint’s throat.

A high, thready whine escaped from Clint’s mouth, his fingers turning into claws as they dragged down Bucky’s back. Smirking into the hollow of Clint’s throat, he wrapped his free hand around the other man’s hip and squeezed, using his grip to force him deeper into Bucky’s space.

The next gasp was much less passionate, and a lot more painful. Bucky let go immediately, scooting himself back, hands hovering over Clint’s bare stomach. “Fuck, fuck, I’m sorry, I forgot, I’m sorry.”

Bucky’s apologies were cut short by Clint’s hand clapping over his mouth.

“I’m fine, dude. Just the ribs.” He hesitated. “Also the whole… hip thing. And the leg. And the uh. Mouth?”

Groaning, Bucky peeled Clint's hand free. “You’re one giant goddamn bruise. Get up. I’m not doing more than kissin’ you for a while.”

Clint wiggled his eyebrows and snickered when Bucky flipped him the bird. “On the cheek, just for that, jackass.”

“Well, y’know...”

“Shut up. I heard it soon as I said it, so just. Shut up.”

“But that’s probably the least hurt part of me?”

“I will bite it,” Bucky threatened, doing a poor job of it since Clint fell forward into Buck’s chest, burrowing as close he could. “Until you can’t sit. You’ll have to lie down.”

Clint tilted his head back up, stealing kisses as he murmured, “Very terrible punishment. Awful. Biting is such a bad thing. Almost as bad as no coffee.”

Taking the hint, Bucky twisted his hips until Clint fell off his legs. They crawled out of bed, never moving out of arm’s reach as they made their way to the kitchen.

A large cardboard box sat on the counter.

“What’s this?” Clint asked, glancing at Bucky. At Bucky’s shrug, Clint said, “Jarvis?”

Jarvis didn’t answer.

“You piss him off?”

“No? I, aw, crap.” Clint gave Bucky a sheepish smile. “So, funny story? But I might have activated SNE? And then ran off to rescue my boo, almost crashed a jet, and totally never removed it because I got kidnapped?”

Bucky blinked. “You. what? Never mind, I’ll ask Stevie later. Jarvis:  _ Eyes Open. _ Deactivate Look Away.”

“Hello, Master Barnes.”

“Why’re you ‘master’ and I’m still ‘agent’?”

“‘Cause J’s just as passive aggressive as Tony.” Bucky winked. “Hey, Jarvis, what’s with the box?”

“It was delivered early this morning for Agent Barton. Might I suggest opening it?”

“Yeah,” Bucky said, grinning at a pouting Clint. “He’s mad.”

Clint blew a raspberry at Bucky, and turned away to peel off the tape sealing the box. Pulling open the flaps, he gave a small, ‘huh’ noise, wrinkling his nose.

“What is it?” Bucky asked, trying to peek around Clint.

“Jars?” Clint said, carefully pulling out two small shapes. “No. They’re vases. Pottery.” He turned and shot Bucky a confused face, before settling the thing on the table. “Oh,” he said, tracing careful fingertips over the gentle slope of the closest one.

They were each about the length of Clint’s hands, maybe ten or so inches. Flared slightly at the lip, they were mostly long, slender throats sliding into a rounded shape towards the base. One looked more like a stretched oval and the other almost a full ball. But they were broken,  cracked, glued together with colored stuff.

“Who sent you broken vases?”

“They’re not, though. Broken.” Clint turned away, rummaging around in the box. His voice sounded odd, thick, but his posture was relaxed, so Bucky let it go.

Taking advantage of the extra space, Bucky stepped closer and shifted the gifts into a stray beam of light. The fatter one proved to be a dark purple, held together with veins of silver, while the thin one gleamed black, gold vines marking its cracks.

They were pretty. Weird, but pretty.

“I don’t get it.”

In response, Clint slapped a note down on the counter. When Bucky turned away to pull it closer, Clint reclaimed his prizes. The smile twitching at the corner of his mouth distracted Bucky for a moment. It was nice, seeing him look so shyly pleased.

The note proved to be handwritten, all elegant loops.  _ “There is an art to finding beauty in brokenness. After all, our scars are the same as the cracks which splay across these vases: proof of one’s determination to survive, to mend. To live. _

He flipped it over, finding only an X in the center of the little card. Absently, he ran his thumb along the edge of the heavy paper, catching the corner under his nail. The words swirled around in his head, but a tiny movement from Clint shifted his focus.

Clint was trying to watch him from under his lashes, pale and worried, a second slip of paper in his hands.

And Bucky got it. Leaving the first note behind on the counter, Bucky slid into Clint’s space. Indulging himself, he cupped Clint’s face, and dragged his thumbs over the curve of Clint’s scruffy cheek.

“He’s right, y’know,” Bucky said, leaning his forehead against Clint’s. “We made it through. Ain’t no shame in our scars. We’re fighters. Damn good ones, too.”

“But…” They were close enough that Clint’s lashes tickled Bucky’s face when he closed his eyes. “I can’t just… be okay.”

“Hey, hey, no,” Bucky soothed, slipping his hands to the back of Clint’s neck to rub soft circles into his skin. “I’m not saying you need to be okay, babe.  I’m saying life happens, and life is hard, but we get back up and we fight.” He pressed a quick kiss to Clint’s temple. “And we get hurt, but hurts get better eventually. Some faster’n others, but I'm bettin’ the whole therapy thing comes into play for a reason.” Stepping back, Bucky tilted Clint’s face so he could look him in the eye. “But I’m right here, and if you’ll let me, I’ll help best I can. Scars don’t scare me. I got plenty of my own.”

Clint quirked a smile at him. “Sap.”

“You know it,” Bucky murmured, pressing a soft kiss to Clint’s lips.

“Speaking of…” Clint trailed off. Bucky nudged him with his nose, until he picked it back up. “Of, um. Therapy.” Clint ducked his head, angling himself so he was still pressed against Bucky, but along his side.

“Yeah?”

Callused fingers held the second note aloft, tilted for Bucky’s eyes. The same slanted hand had listed off several names, with addresses and phone numbers.  Underneath it said only,  _ I believe these will be most helpful to you and your team. Remember, there is no shame in asking for help. _

Gently, Bucky pressed Clint closer. “Tell you what,” he mumbled into Clint’s hair, “I will if you will.”

Wide blue eyes met his own. “‘M serious. What you’n me lived through? It leaves marks we can’t wish away. You just said so.” Mischief bloomed in his chest and Bucky let it curl into his voice as he said, “‘Sides, if we go, bet we can shame the rest of them into going, too.”

“What?”

“Stevie’s a walking disaster, thinks the world’ll stop spinning if he sleeps. Tony hides in his ’shop and tries to drink himself to death. Bruce is pretending he ain’t afraid of himself, and Nat literally don’t know which personality is her original one. Christ, Thor could go, too, talk to someone 'bout his crazy family." Clint snorted out a laugh and Buck continued, softer now. "We’re all more than a little fucked up.” He pulled away and raised his eyebrows, letting his fingers toy with the short hairs at the base of Clint's hairline. “What d’ya say, gorgeous? I’ll go if you go?”

Clint held up his pinky. “I’ll look out for you,” he said, a lopsided smile curving his mouth. “You look out for me?” 

Buck looped his metal pinky around Clint’s without a second thought, his heart full to bursting with affection. “Always, babe. Promise.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I just want to take a second and let all of my readers know how much I *absolutely* adore them.  
> And by them, I mean you.  
> You're amazing.  
> I never, never in my wildest dreams expected such a response to this ridiculous fic.  
> (Especially since the original prompt was some nonsense about character A making character B food. I... think I failed, just a little, on that whole thing. By.. a lot of words, actually.)  
> This is my first long-fic, my first attempt at actually keep track of plot and characters, and the comments you guys have left have honest to god made me tear up more than once.  
> And the couple of folks who've made it point to respond to every single chapter? Don't think I haven't memorized who you are, guys, because I have. You've made this a fantastic experience for me, and I can't thank you enough for supporting me.  
> <3 <3 <3  
> I don't want to rule out a sequel, but I have no plans to write another fic in this 'verse right now. And if I did, it'd probably end up being recovery-centric. But my brain is very strange, so, I've learned to not rule anything out.

**Author's Note:**

> If you can think of anything I might need to tag, please don't hesitate to let me know!
> 
> I can be found at @mommalosthermind on Tumblr, while my rarely-used writing handle is @Ishtar-12


End file.
